


To Fix That Which Was Broken

by ForgottenAngel15



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Idiots Are Oblivious, Other tags will be added as we go along, Slow Burn, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2019-06-28 23:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 42,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15716991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForgottenAngel15/pseuds/ForgottenAngel15
Summary: When Mahal himself offers to send Thorin back to the start of the quest to save the line of Durin, he is determined to make amends for all of the mistakes he made the first time around.When Bilbo wakes up in Bag End eighty years in the past, all he knows is that he has somehow been given the chance to see his beloved dwarves again and he'll be damned if he doesn't take it.Both dwarf and hobbit are desperate to prevent the quest from ending in tragedy, but neither will be able to do it on their own. They'll need to work together if they want to keep the entire Company alive and whole --but first they need to realize that they are not alone in their efforts, and they have to stop getting in each other's way at every turn they make.Hopefully, they'll learn some things this time that they failed to learn before. And maybe, just maybe, they'll find their happy ending that both have been yearning for.





	1. A Second Chance

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been bouncing around in my head for over a year now, and I keep coming back to it every few months to add a bit more and edit things, but I've never gotten around to turning it into a coherent story. I've started working on it yet again, and I finally decided to actually publish it here in the hopes that it will motivate me to finish it.
> 
> This is the first fanfiction I've gotten up the courage to actually share with people, though it definitely isn't the first that I've written. I have thousands of words saved in dozens of documents stowed away where nobody will ever read them. If this goes well, maybe I'll start to share those stories as well. 
> 
> For now, I hope you enjoy this first chapter --the next one is already written and I'll post it soon. 
> 
> I'm the only one who has ever read/edited this, so any mistake is my own. If you happen to notice any errors, I'd appreciate it if you'd point it out so I can fix it.
> 
> Thank you!

He was so beautiful, with his large hazel eyes, and his curly mop of hair, and his face framed by a halo of golden sunlight. It didn’t matter that he was covered in grime or that there was blood on his bruised temple. The only thing that could make the hobbit more breathtaking in that moment was if his look of despair turned to a smile and the tears running down his cheeks were to cease. If Thorin had strength enough to do so, he would reach up and dry them himself, but he could hardly keep his eyes open, let alone lift his entire arm. But oh, how he wished he could cup those round cheeks in his palms or feel those soft lashes flutter against his fingertips at least once. As he was unable to do so, he had to settle with just staring up into the hobbit’s devastated face, which was steadily growing blurrier and blurrier as time went by.

Despite how muddled his thoughts were becoming, Thorin found himself thinking that if this was the last thing he ever saw, at least he would die happy knowing that Bilbo was alive -that he hadn’t been the cause of yet another pointless death.

Releasing a shuddering sigh, Thorin finally let his eyes fall shut, too exhausted to keep up the effort of holding them open. The hobbit spoke then, but he was already too far gone to understand the words. All he could make out was the anguish with which he said them. It sent a twinge of pain through Thorin’s chest —or maybe that was just the stab wound. Either way, it was accompanied with a wave of guilt and the urge to comfort his burglar, though he knew there was nothing he could do now. At the very least, he had gotten the chance to apologize for his actions on the wall.

It wasn’t ideal —a dying plea for forgiveness was not nearly enough to make up for the enormity of what he had done— but it would have to suffice. He hadn’t the time to do any better than that. Already, he could feel himself fading.

Soon he would be laid to rest in stone.

  


Thorin was alone in a cold, dark abyss. He had no sense of how much time was passing by, and as far as he knew it could have been only moments that he was there or centuries. The lack of sensations in the place was both terrifying and maddening. He could feel nothing —couldn’t even tell if his eyes were open or shut. It seemed possible that he didn’t even have a body at all. Maybe he was just a thought floating there in the darkness. All he had was the icy cold and the fear that he would be stuck there forever. 

As he had lay dying on the frozen waterfall above the battle, he’d thought that he would finally get to see the Halls of Waiting and be reunited with his family after so long of being separated from them. He longed to feel his mother’s arms around him and to see Frerin once again. He needed to find Vili and apologize for leading his sons into such peril. And Fili and Kili, his two precious boys, he had to tell them how much he loved them. Before the battle, he’d said nothing about it, thinking that it was unnecessary. Surely they knew how much he cared —how much they meant to him.

Now he realized he how much of a fool he had been. He had to make things right, but he couldn’t do that. Not while he was trapped there in that place of nothingness.

At some point, he began to wonder if he would ever see the Halls at all. Maybe he would be stuck there for eternity as punishment for his crimes. After all, hadn’t he succumbed to greed and locked himself inside a mountain full of gold, leaving his kin to die in his name? Even worse, he had turned on the one he owed his very life to —had tried to throw him from the wall kill him, and for what? A silly, glittering stone? Not only had he betrayed the trust of a member of his company, but of his friend. His One.

Yes, after everything was said and done, Thorin could finally admit to himself that it was true. The fussy, homebody hobbit —who was too concerned about handkerchiefs and armchairs and had never wielded a blade before their meeting that fateful day in the Shire— was his One. He had wasted so much time trying to deny it, and now it was too late. He would probably never see Bilbo again. He knew nothing of the afterlife of hobbits, but he did know that one would likely not be allowed to join him in his. What did that matter, though, when he himself might not be allowed in?

It was painful to think, but he knew that he didn’t deserve to await the remaking of the world in the Halls of his Maker. Not after everything he had done —all the mistakes he had made.

At least, that was what Thorin had managed to convince himself by the time he suddenly realized that he could feel stone against his back and that the cold was gone, replaced by a comforting warmth that reminded him of home. Slowly, he opened his eyes to see columns of carven stone towering above him and he stared up at them in confusion for a moment. It didn’t take long for him to understand, and when he did, he closed his eyes again.

 _This cannot be right_ , he thought as he took a shuddering breath, _I shouldn’t be here._

Yet the warmth didn’t go away, and he became acutely aware of the fact that he was laying on the floor, and eventually it became too uncomfortable for him to take anymore.

Opening his eyes again, he sat up and then climbed to his feet. It was strange. After being fatally injured, he should have been in some kind of pain, but he wasn’t even stiff. He felt as healthy as he had ever been. Looking down at himself, he found that he no longer had any of the armor that he had donned for the battle. Now, he wore only a simple tunic, trousers, and his boots. There was no blood or grime on any of the clothing, and when he lifted the tunic to peek at his chest, he found no evidence of the stab wound Azog had given him. Actually, there was no sign that he had ever been in any battle. All of the many scars that he’d gained over the years were nowhere to be seen, and besides the ink of his tattoo, his torso was otherwise left unmarked.

Somewhat unnerved by the sight, Thorin let the tunic fall back into place and turned his attention to his surroundings instead. He stood in the middle of a large, empty hall lined lengthwise with two rows of stone columns that rose to a ceiling far above. Below his boots, the floor was polished smooth as glass and he could nearly see his reflection looking back at him. On one end of the hall, a throne stood empty on a raised dais. He stared at it for a moment then tore his gaze away and walked over to the column nearest to him. As far up as he could see, there were intricate images carved into stone. Reaching out, he ran his hand over the lines curiously.

“Thorin Oakenshield.”

He jerked away form the column like he’d been burned and spun around to face whoever had spoken. A few feet away stood a dwarf who had thick auburn hair and beard, both long with many beads and braids. He looked middle-aged, but his eyes held the wisdom of a being far older than any that Thorin had ever met before. Older, even, than Gandalf. It took only a moment for him to realize whose presence he stood in, and a moment more him to drop to one knee and bow his head respectfully.

“Mahal,” he breathed.

“I thank you, my son, but there is no need for it. Please, on your feet. I would have us speak on equal ground, not with you beneath me.” His voice fell silent after the words and the only sound was his footsteps as he walked closer.

Thorin looked up, eyes landing on the hand held out to him. Then, he hesitantly took it and allowed the dwarf to help him to his feet. Up close, he was surprised to find that he stood an inch or two taller than him.

Once he was standing, the dwarf spoke again. “I have wanted to meet you for quite some time, though I admit it was not meant to be like this.”

Blinking, Thorin somehow found his voice. “I am sorry, but I am not sure what you mean.”

“You are an honorable dwarf, Thorin son of Thrain,” he said simply.

Thorin may have thought he was joking, but there was no hint of humor in his deep voice. The words were completely serious, and that confused him more than anything. He didn’t deserve to be titled as such, especially not by the Maker himself. “I thank you for your words, but-”

“But you do not believe them. Why?”

“I...I failed. I failed them. Dwalin and Balin and the others...Fili and Kili.”

“You have been through much, Thorin. You served your people well, even when many others would have turned their backs. You provided for them. You retook the mountain. Where is the failure in that?” Mahal spoke with no judgement in his voice, just kind curiosity. He acted as though he were just another dwarf —looked and sounded like one, too. Had Thorin met him under other circumstances, he never would have recognized the being for who he truly was. Maybe it was for that reason that he was able to answer the question.

“I allowed dwarf blood to be spilled for the sake of my pride and greed. I fell to the madness.” The thought was painful enough to think, let alone say aloud, and Thorin winced. Still, he grit his teeth and went on. “Is that not failure enough?”

“Ah, the sickness. It is a terrible thing. I would not wish it on anyone, yet even I am powerless to end it.” There was a hint of sadness in his voice, and he fell silent for a moment, studying Thorin with wise eyes. “Still, you overcame it in the end —something that even your grandfather hadn’t the strength to do. You returned to your own mind and went to aid in the fight, even when it seemed that all hope was lost. I do not see that as failure.”

Maybe it was not the best idea to argue with a literal god —especially when that god was complimenting him— but Thorin always had been somewhat hard-headed. “I may have reclaimed the mountain, but what of my sister’s sons? It was my foolishness that lost them their lives. How is that not failure?”

Mahal didn’t seem at all surprised by his arguing, or offended by it. He simply considered him appraisingly for a moment. His stare was one that Thorin could not hold for long, and he looked away, dropping his gaze to the floor. The Maker thought him honorable, and Thorin himself wasn’t even sure why he was trying to convince him otherwise. Maybe it was his lingering guilt of all that had happened. If he had only just…

As if reading his thoughts, the dwarf spoke up once again. “Tell me, given the chance to go back and change things, what would you do differently?”

The question was not one that Thorin had to search out an answer for. It was one that he had thought about many times throughout his life, so he responded almost without a thought. “I would ensure that Erebor was better protected —better prepared for a dragon attack. I would prevent the mountain from ever being taken.”

“Really? And what of your hobbit? Were it not for the quest to reclaim Erebor, you would not have met him. Would you change things, even while knowing that it would result in you never meeting your One?”

Caught off guard, Thorin’s eyes snapped back up from the floor. He wasn’t sure why Bilbo was being brought into the conversation, but he still did not have to think long to come up with an answer. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly hoarse. “Without the quest, I may not have met him, but he also never would have left the Shire. He would have stayed in his home with his books and his armchair and would never have known fear, or what it is like to starve. Yes, I would still change things. I may be left without my One, but at least he would be happy.”

“You say that as if you had forced him to join you and your Company. I wonder, what would his thoughts on the matter be?” Mahal mused.

Thorin sucked in a sharp breath and he tensed. Closing his eyes, he spoke quietly. “Why do you ask me these things?”

“I cannot send you back to before the dragon came, Thorin. The past is in the past, and it is too late to fix any of it.” He paused, as if waiting for some kind of interruption, but Thorin said nothing. After a moment, he continued on. “The present, however, is a different matter. What happened on Ravenhill was a mistake. The line of Durin was not meant to be broken. Whether through you or one of your heirs, it should have carried on. Durin’s sons were meant to rule under the mountain for many generations to come.”

It was possible that the words were meant to serve as some kind of comfort to him, but they only succeeded in reminding Thorin once again all that he had lost. Wincing, he forced out a response. “Dain is a good dwarf, and he will make a fine king.”

“There were many ways that the future might have played out, but Dain becoming king was not supposed to be one of them.”

Silence so quiet they could have heard a grain of sand hit the floor stretched between them, and Thorin struggled to make sense of what he had said. Maybe his words were true, but what did that matter now? Meant to be or not, Azog had killed the line of Durin. The only one who remained was his sister Dis, and the line could not carry on through her. She could not have another child if she wanted to, and as soon as she was gone that would be the end of it.

After a while, he gave up on understanding and just shrugged helplessly. “What is it that you are trying to say?”

“This is your choice, Thorin. You may walk through that door and reunite with your kin right now. Your grandparents, mother, father, brother...they await the day that you will finally join them. If that is what you wish, then I will not stop you.” Mahal paused, but it was obvious that there was something being left unsaid.

Growing impatient, Thorin prompted him to go on. “Or?”

“Or, I can send you back to the beginning of the quest, and you can set things right.”

He shook his head, confused. “You said that the past cannot be changed.”

“Time is a strange thing, my son, and I will not attempt to explain it fully. Just know that what may be the past for you, is still my present. In a way, the events of your past year have all happened in the same instant —and are still happening now. The start of your journey has not yet left my reach.”

“Then why return me to the start?” Thorin asked cautiously. “Would it not be simpler to send me back to the battle, before I sent Fili and Kili into the Defiler’s trap?”

“While that may be the simpler option, I do not believe it would be the most beneficial. There are things you must yet learn, and they are lessons that the battle alone cannot teach you. In time, you will understand why it must be so. For now, should you choose to do this, I must ask you to trust my judgement,” Mahal said with a small shake of his head. He seemed unconcerned by the questions. Actually, he looked almost amused.

Pursing his lips, Thorin glanced over Mahal’s shoulder and looked to the door that he had mentioned earlier. It resided on the wall behind the throne, and looked simple in comparison to the rest of the grand room, but if what the god said was true —and Thorin had no doubt that it was— then it would lead him to his family. He had the urge to run to it and not look back. It would be such an easy thing to do. He could be done —finally be free from the hardships that life had wrought him. Erebor was in good hands.

Still, something stopped him.

“If I were to go back, what would I remember?” he asked, finally.

The god’s smile was wide enough to be seen even behind his thick beard. “Everything. Up to the very last moment at Ravenhill.”

“And this conversation?”

“Yes.”

Looking down at his hands, Thorin let out a long, slow breath.

This was a terrible idea.

With his luck, he would only succeed in making things even worse. Still, it was a chance not to be passed up lightly. He had a feeling that there were not many others who were given such an opportunity, and he would be a fool to waste it. Had he not spent his time in the darkness yearning to right all of his wrongs?

He threw one last glance to the door before straightening up and meeting Mahal’s gaze. A time would come when he would see his family once again, but today was not that day.

Nodding once, he spoke, though there was a slight tremor in his voice. “I will do it.”

Returning his nod, Mahal stepped forward and gently pressed his brow to Thorin’s. “Mizùl, Inùdoyê. Mahzirikhi zu gang ghukhil.”

The last thing Thorin saw was mithril eyes staring into his before there was a flash of light and everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mizùl, Inùdoyê. Mahzirikhi zu gang ghukhil - Good luck, my son. I wish you a safe journey.  
> It's been a long time since I wrote this first chapter, so I don't remember exactly where found the khuzdul in it, but I am reasonably certain that it came from The Dwarrow Scholar.  
> I'd like to note that I did not come up with the name for Fili's and Kili's father. Vili is a name that I have seen used in numerous other fics, and I've found that I like it, so any credit for that goes to whoever decided to use that name first.


	2. A Rude Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo finds himself somewhere he expected to never see again, then proceeds to panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a handful of lovely comments yesterday on the first chapter, and it seems that the general consensus is that people want to read more of my story. I am so grateful for all of the feedback, and I hope that you like this next part just as much as you liked the last. As promised, here's chapter two :D

It was a nice morning, by all accounts. The early spring air was cool, but not cold, and the nearly cloudless blue sky promised that it would be a warm day. Already, hobbits were awake and eating their first breakfast or sitting outside having an early smoke. Fauntlings were running out their doors, excited for the new day and the good weather that would be perfect for playing conkers or flying a kite. Birds were singing, and people milled about Hobbiton, getting ready for the market to open.

Yes, it was a nice morning indeed, but there was a slight problem.

At the end of Bagshot Row, inside a particularly nice smial with plenty of windows and a well-stocked pantry, there was a hobbit who was not enjoying the morning at all. In fact, he was in a bit of a panic. 

Bilbo Baggins was a respectable hobbit —or at least he used to be— and being respectable, he liked to think that he was very level-headed. He’d had to go up against a plethora of nasty situations in his lifetime including (but certainly not limited to) negotiating with trolls, sharing in a game of riddles with a very unsavory creature, and facing a real live fire-breathing dragon —all of which had wanted to eat him at the time. Not to mention the thirteen dwarves that had come unannounced and raided his pantry.

In any case, he thought he was rather accustomed to unexpected things happening by now, and it wasn’t often that anything truly surprised him anymore. 

Still, when he opened his eyes and found himself staring up not at the sheer canopy of his bed in Valinor, but the ceiling of the master bedroom of Bag End, he very nearly screamed.

He was sitting up and halfway out of the bed before he realised that he was actually moving. 

That wouldn’t have been so shocking if not for the fact that he had lost basically all mobility when he was one hundred thirty-three and had been unable to walk two years before that.

Slowly lowering himself back onto the edge of the bed, Bilbo looked down at his hands and blinked. 

No longer knobbed and wrinkled with blue veins and liver spots, his hands looked young again. They were soft and smooth except for the calluses formed from many days spent writing and working out in the garden, but were otherwise unaffected by age. 

He gazed around the room in confusion for a moment or two before his eyes locked onto the mirror that stood in the corner.

Forgetting his concerns about walking, BIlbo was on his feet and in front of the mirror in a second. He stared into the reflection and familiar hazel eyes stared right back at him. A mop of brown curls sat atop his head, mussed and tangled from sleep, and he wore a rumpled nightshirt that he hadn’t seen in ages. Briefly, he wondered if he was dreaming. Though, if he was, it was far more realistic than any dream he had ever had before.

His next thought was that he had finally died and passed on to the afterlife.

He hoped not.

Although it had been —and always would be— his true home, Bag End was not what he had imagined whenever he pictured the place that he would spend the rest of his blessed eternity.

That had him moving again, and he hurried out of the bedroom. Heading through the smial, he passed through several rooms before he reached the entrance hall, where he opened the front door and flung it open wide before striding out into the bright morning sunlight. 

Under normal circumstances, Bilbo would have taken a moment to appreciate the good weather. He would sit on his bench with a pipe of Old Toby in hand, or maybe go for a walk around the village —but this situation was far from normal. As things were, he hardly even noticed the nice breeze. Instead, he scanned his surroundings until his eyes landed on Hamfast Gamgee and he walked towards him quickly.

The hobbit was kneeling in the front garden, tending to the tulips that were just beginning to bloom. It took him a moment to notice that Bilbo was standing over him and when he did, he gave a friendly greeting, went back to the flowers, then had to do a double take.

Bilbo probably made for a strange sight, standing out there in broad daylight wearing only his nightclothes and a wild look in his eyes. 

Completely unrespectable.

If any of his other neighbors had walked by at that particular moment and seen him like that, then may have fainted, but not Hamfast. The gardener had always had a way of taking Bilbo’s odd quirks in stride, and this was no different. So, rather than make a big deal out of his state of undress, Hamfast simply looked up at him with concern.

“Whatever is the matter, Mister Bilbo?”

Bilbo waved the question away impatiently. “Quick, what’s the date?”

“The date?”

“Yes, the date.” He hadn’t meant to snap, really, but at the moment he couldn’t care enough to apologize.

An interest, yet completely implausible thought had taken root in his mind, and he needed somebody to confirm it for him. Or prove it wrong. He wasn’t sure yet which he would prefer. 

To Hamfast’s credit, he made a valiant effort at hiding his bewilderment at the strange manner of the question and answered him. “Why, it’s the 24th of Astron, I believe.”

“And the year?” Bilbo pressed. “What’s the year?”

This did stump him, and the gardener started up at him with a furrowed brow, looking as if he was contemplating asking Bilbo if he felt ill. He must have decided against it, though, because he spoke after a few moments. “It’s 1341.”

With a hurried mixture of thanks and good mornings, Bilbo turned and scurried back inside, slamming the door behind him and leaning back against it heavily. With his heart pounding and his breath coming in quick gasps as it was, one would have thought he had just run all the way to Michel Delving and back. Bilbo shuddered and sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands.

Things were definitely awry.

He had sailed to the Undying Lands nearly four years ago in the company of Frodo, Gandalf, Lord Elrond, and Lady Galadriel. He was supposed to be there now, at the age of one hundred thirty-five and living out the remainder of his days in peace, not back in the Shire at the age of —he paused, taking a moment to do the math. If Hamfast was right and it was indeed 1341, then that would put him at fifty years old.

For some reason, the thought stirred up a memory in him and he pondered on it for a few seconds, then he froze and his eyes snapped open.

“Surely not,” he whispered, hardly willing to believe the idea that had just come into his head, but clambering to his feet anyways.

He made it halfway across the entry hall before he spun on his heel and paced back to the door, then repeated the action for a few minutes as he struggled to work through his spinning thoughts.

The 25th of Astron in the year 1341 was the day that a certain wizard had appeared at his gate, inviting him to go on an adventure.

The sensible parts of him said that there was no power in Middle Earth that could turn back time, but once he had reached old age it was a well known fact that not every part of his was sensible. 

Also, he knew first hand that there was power outside of Arda, didn’t he? The whole fiasco with the Ring was proof enough of that.

If it’s creator had managed to return to the world and cause all of that destruction, who could say what else was out there? He wouldn’t be surprised if the Valar themselves could send a hobbit through time if they really had a mind to do it, though he had no idea why they would.

Eventually, Bilbo stopped his pacing and headed for the kitchen, meaning to fix himself up a cup of tea that would calm him down. All those thoughts of time travel and gods were making his head hurt, and obsessing over it wasn’t going to change the fact that he was there. Really, there was only one way to prove if his suspicions were true or not, and that chance wouldn’t come until late morning the next day.

In the meantime, all he could do was wait and get used to having his younger body back —that is, if he didn’t wake up by then.

 

By the time he went to bed that night, Bilbo was still not completely convinced that he wasn’t dreaming. A small part of him still thought that he would wake in the morning just to find himself back in Valinor, old and half blind once again. He would call Frodo in to share breakfast with him and would tell him of the strange dream that he’d had as he slept. Maybe after that, he would ask his nephew to read to him from a book of poetry for a while until he got tired.

It was a nice idea, but at the same time, he thought that if that happened he might end up being disappointed. If he really had been sent back to the past, he had no doubt that it was going to get him into endless amounts of trouble, but at the same time, it had been nice to finally be able to hear the birds again.

 

He didn’t have the chance to find out if he would be disappointed or not because when he woke up the next morning, he was still in Bag End. He laid in bed for a long while, just staring up at the ceiling and thinking, but the longer he thought, the more nervous he became.

If he was indeed back in time, the proof he needed would be arriving in only a few hours time. He wasn’t even sure yet if he wanted to know, not because he was afraid he would find out that it was true, but because he was afraid he’d find out it wasn’t. 

What if this day passed him by like any other peaceful day in the Shire would, and Gandalf never showed up? What would he do then?

It wasn’t until the sun rose enough for it’s rays to shine in through the window and blind him where his head rested on the pillow that Bilbo finally forced himself to get up. He wouldn’t find any answers if he wasted the day away in bed. He had already missed breakfast, so he got dressed and shuffled to the kitchen to find something to eat, but by the time he was finished making his food, he had worked himself into such a state that he couldn’t even eat it.

So he sat there at the table, nibbling at the corners of his toast and sipping his tea, but hardly tasting either. Eventually, his stomach got tied into such a knot that he began to feel sick, and he gave up on eating all together.

Restless and with nothing better to do, he ended up fetching his old pipe and going outside to sit on the bench and wait.

Bilbo knew he was out there a bit early, but he found himself that if he wasn’t, he might somehow miss Gandalf when he passed by —that is, if the wizard showed up at all. But no, he didn’t want to think about that. Gandalf would come. He had to. He was the only person Bilbo knew who might be able to give him some answers.

Still, as more time passed and elevensies grew closer and closer, he couldn’t help but worry. Surely Gandalf had come earlier than this the last time, hadn’t he?

Bilbo couldn’t remember.

It had been so long ago, and he hadn’t exactly been paying much attention to the time back then. He had been more concerned with avoiding getting dragged into any kind of adventure by some firecracker-making loon. It seemed somewhat ironic that now when he actually wanted an adventure to find him, it was taking forever to arrive.

After a while, Bilbo found that his hands were shaking so much that he couldn’t even hold his pipe steady anymore. Muttering under his breath, he gave up on smoking and got to his feet.

“Blasted wizard is always late,” he grumbled, heading towards the gate.

If Gandalf was going to take his sweet time getting there, then he would just have to go and find the old man himself. A small voice in the back of his mind told him that Gandalf wasn’t coming and he was being ridiculous, but he ignored it.

Gandalf had to be coming, because Bilbo didn’t know what he would do if he wasn’t.

With that thought, he stepped out of his yard and turned left, starting down the lane.

Bilbo paid no mind to the neighbors who called out greetings as he passed by, too distracted by his current purpose to respond to them. He was searching for any sign of a pointed grey hat making its way towards him on the path, but so far there was none.

For all his searching, Bilbo almost missed the old man entirely. He’d gotten so caught up in his worrying that when the wizard came around the bend ahead of him, Bilbo had completely passed him up and nearly tripped over his own two feet in his haste to turn back around and catch up with him.

“Gandalf!” 

At some other time, Bilbo may have gotten some satisfaction from making his old friend jump in surprise, but at the moment he didn’t care. He hurried up to Gandalf’s side and started speaking before he could even fit in a word of greeting.

“You have no idea how relieved I am to see you.”

“Why, if it isn’t Bilbo Baggins! You are just the hobbit I was on my way to find.” Gandalf looked delighted, and seemed ready to go on talking, but Bilbo —quite rudely— cut him off before he had the chance.

“Yes, yes, I know. You were taking too long, so I came to fetch you myself,” he said impatiently.

As happy as he was to see his friend, Bilbo was too wound up to take part in simple pleasantries. With Gandalf there, he was eager to tell the wizard what was happening to him and, hopefully, get some answers.

Gandalf looked down at him with a raised brow. “You were expecting me?”

Noticing that there was a slowly growing group of fauntlings nearby all whispering excitedly and staring at the wizard with wide eyes, Bilbo felt suddenly that the middle of the road was not the best place to have this conversation. He glanced at Gandalf nervously, then motioned back in the direction of Bag End. “Let’s take this somewhere else, shall we? We have much we need to talk about.”

“That we do,” Gandalf said slowly, looking a bit bemused. After a moment, he shook his head and waved a hand. “By all means, Master Baggins, lead on.”

It took five minutes to reach the round, green door of Bag End, and they spent it walking in silence. By the time they got there, Bilbo had somehow managed to ignore his urge to blurt everything out, but he was practically vibrating with the effort of it, and when he opened the door he pushed it so hard that it nearly slammed into the wall.

Gandalf asked him if he was alright, to which Bilbo only gave a nervous chuckle before scurrying inside. The hobbit headed straight for the kitchen, but paused for a moment to look back at the wizard.

“Don’t hit your head on the light.” He gave the warning just at the right moment and Gandalf stopped, eyes wandering up to the light fixture hanging only inches in front of his head. Bilbo waved off his grateful look then turned away again. “You go ahead and make yourself at home. I’ll just make us a pot of tea, then we can talk.”

A few minutes later, Bilbo walked into the parlour, carrying a tray laden with tea and seed cakes. He sat the tray down on the table and passed a very large mug to Gandalf before settling himself down into his armchair.

The wizard sipped the tea with an appreciative hum, then set the mug down on the table and turned his gaze onto Bilbo. “Thank you, my dear boy, this is quite nice. Now, I’m sure you are curious as to why I am here and—”

Too impatient to listen to the whole explanation, Bilbo cut in quickly. “Gandalf, forgive me for the interruption, but I know exactly why you’re here and before we get into that, I think you should hear what I have to say.”

“Oh you do, do you?” Gandalf asked, sounding amused. He folded his hands in his lap and sat back in his seat, looking at Bilbo expectantly. “Alright, then. Why am I here?”

“You’re here to convince me to be the fourteenth member in a company of dwarves traveling to the Lonely Mountain to take Erebor back from the dragon Smaug.”

Gandalf’s amusement disappeared, replaced with a dumbfounded look and he stared at Bilbo, speechless. It was obvious that he hadn’t actually believed the hobbit when he’d said he knew the wizard’s purpose. Not that Bilbo could blame him. After all, what possible way was there for him to know any of that? He certainly had no idea, but he hoped that by the time he was done explaining, Gandalf would have some kind of theory.

“What I’m about to tell you is going to sound utterly mad, but I swear to you, Gandalf, I am completely serious,” Bilbo said, forcing himself not to rush.

About fifteen minutes later, Bilbo was sitting stiffly in his armchair, watching as Gandalf paced back and forth across the room. The wizard had listened quietly as Bilbo had given his explanation, then as soon as he’d finished he stood up and started his pacing, grumbling under his breath as he went. The fact that he hadn’t actually said a word in response to what Bilbo had told him was beginning to make him nervous —or at least even more nervous than he had already been before.

When he couldn’t take the silence any longer, he spoke up. “You do believe, don’t you?”

The wizard finally stopped and turned to look at him, an unreadable look in his old eyes. He stared for a moment, then returned to his seat, letting out a deep sigh as he sat. “Yes, Bilbo, I believe you.”

He paused and reached into his robe with one hand, digging around a bit before pulling out a silver flask. Unscrewing the lid, he tossed back a swallow of whatever the container held, then offered it to Bilbo. Having some experience with the wizards strange spirits, he politely declined.

Huffing slightly, Gandalf closed the flask and shoved it back into his pocket before speaking again. “I believe you, though I do not pretend to understand it. You said you went on the quest for Erebor once before?”

Bilbo nodded in confirmation.

“And before yesterday, you were one hundred thirty-five and living in Valinor?”

Another nod. “Yes, I traveled there with you, Lord Elrond, and Frodo after—”

The wizard interrupted him quickly, holding up a hand. “Don’t tell me. The less I know about it, the better. Time is a dangerous thing to mess with, Bilbo, and having knowledge of the future will be a heavy burden.”

He wanted to point out that he’d never had any intention of ‘messing with time’, but Bilbo decided to leave it be, as it wouldn’t actually help anything. “Alright, I won’t tell you, but what do you suggest I do?”

“Well,” Gandalf said after a moment of thought. “The way I see it, you can either set off once again on the quest to Erebor, or you could stay here in the Shire and try to start over —live out a quiet life with your books and maps.”

The second suggestion had Bilbo letting out a sound of protest before Gandalf had even finished speaking. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t considered it, however briefly, but he had decided against it rather quickly. How could he stay in Bag End, even while knowing all of the dangers that the Company had ahead of them? The idea was positively absurd. Even more absurd than a hobbit traveling back in time.

Bilbo was not so self absorbed as to think that he was vital to the quest, but there had to be some reason he was living through all of this again, and he refused to believe that it was so he could just spend the rest of his (second) life living in the Shire like some sort of normal gentle-hobbit.

There had once been a point in his life where that idea would have been very appealing indeed, but that time was long gone. Frodo had asked him a few times if he had ever regretted his choice of running out his door to go on an adventure, and if he would ever change it, given the chance. Bilbo’s answer to those questions had always been no, and that wasn’t about to change now.

Those dwarves had become something like a family to him over that year he had spent traveling with them, and they had continued to be just that throughout the rest of his days. He wasn’t going to abandon them now, even if they weren’t yet aware of just how much they meant to him.

If Gandalf understood any of that from his long silence, Bilbo didn’t know, but he stood from his seat and reached for his staff and hat. “It seems you have made your decision, so I will bid you farewell, for now.”

“You’re leaving already?” The question came out as a bit of a squeak, but Bilbo was too alarmed to care, and he scrambled to his feet to follow the wizard back into the entrance hall.

“I am afraid that I must. There are arrangements to be made and word to be sent to the dwarves that I have found their burglar.” Gandalf stopped at the door and turned a reassuring smile down to Bilbo. “Do not fret, my friend. I will return tomorrow evening.”

“I know,” Bilbo mumbled, deflating a bit. He watched as Gandalf stepped outside then, remembering something, he hurried forward and called after him. “Gandalf!”

The wizard stopped and glanced over his shoulder at him. “Hm?”

“I know you plan on scratching some silly symbol onto my door, and I would appreciate it if you did it on the gate instead. The door was just repainted a week ago.”

With that, Gandalf laughed and shook his head. “If I did not know any better, I would think you a mind reader. Yes, my boy, I will put it on the gate.”

Bilbo stayed in the doorway and watched the wizard as he left the yard, then turned back for a moment and used his staff to scratch the symbol onto the gate. It wasn’t until Gandalf had gone down the lane and disappeared from sight that he turned to go back inside. Something flashed in the corner of his vision —a figure clad in green— but when he turned to look to the garden where the person had been standing, there was nobody there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three might take a little bit longer to come out because there are a few parts I need to either rewrite or finish, but I promise it will be published within the next two days.
> 
> Also, for some reason the notes from last chapter seem to be at the bottom of this one as well, but I can't get rid of it. If anybody had any idea of how to fix it, I'd be grateful for the help :)


	3. The Start of a Long Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin makes his way to the Shire and joins up with some of his Company on the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter seems a bit filler-y. I tried to make it interesting, but... forgive me if it's boring. I swear the next chapter will be better.

When Thorin awoke, it was to a painful migraine and an insistent pounding in his head. It reminded him of the feeling he would get the morning after a night of downing far too much ale, but he couldn’t remember drinking anything. Actually, he couldn’t remember much about anything at the moment. Judging by the soft surface he could feel underneath him, he was laying in a bed, though he had no clue as to how he could have gotten there. 

The last time he had slept in a real bed was the last night the Company was in Laketown, and that had been a couple of weeks ago, now. There currently weren’t any beds available in Erebor —at least, none that weren’t rotted or buried underneath over a century’s worth of dust— and they had all been sleeping on the stone floor of a balcony above the treasury ever since they had entered the mountain. 

Or, most of them had been. 

Thorin wasn’t sure when he had slept last. Getting rest hadn’t seemed all that important compared to his search for the Arkenstone—

The Arkenstone. Smaug. A sea of golden treasure. An acorn. Bilbo wearing a shirt of mithril. Bard and Thranduil. Arkenstone. Bilbo dangling over the side of the rampart. Gandalf. Orcs. Dead Fili. Azog. Bilbo sitting over him with tears rolling freely down his cheeks. Darkness. Ancient grey eyes.

The images whirled through Thorin’s mind so quickly that he couldn’t even process one before the next was taking its place. Eyes flying open, he shot up in bed, clutching at his chest and breathing hard. A bright beam of sunshine blinded him, and for a moment all he could see was flashes of color. When his spotty vision cleared, he looked down at his chest and was relieved to find that there was no wound there. Or no fresh wounds —the scars that he had come accustomed to seeing when he looked at himself had returned. He was comforted somewhat by the sight and looked away from his torso to glance around at his surrounding, finding that he was in vaguely familiar looking room.

Before he could figure out exactly where he was, it came to his attention that the pounding wasn’t just in his head and somebody was actually knocking on the door —very impatiently, by the sound of it.

Grumbling, Thorin struggled to untangle himself from the mess of blankets wrapped around his legs then rolled off the bed and crossed the room. He turned the lock on the knob then pulled the door open to glare at whoever was out there.

It was a middle aged man with a balding head and stubble on his chin that looked like a poor attempt at growing a beard. His fist was raised, poised to continue its insistent knocking, but it dropped back to the man’s side as soon as his eyes landed on the dwarf before him. He, too, looked familiar. As though Thorin had seen him before.

“What do you want?”

The man huffed somewhat at his tone, but he didn’t sound too bothered when he spoke. “I apologize, Master Dwarf, but you did request that I tell you the moment a message arrived for you.”

Thorin stared at him, then glanced down at the paper he held in his hand. Nodding, he accepted the paper after a moment and muttered a quiet ‘thank you’. He closed the door before the man could get out a response.

Alone again, Thorin stood frozen as he worked through what was happening. He remembered now —facing Azog atop Ravenhill, dying, speaking with Mahal. The Maker had promised to send him back in time to the beginning of the quest. If it was true, then that would mean he was in a room at the inn in Bree, just outside the Shire. And the paper…

Hurrying to unfold it, he nearly tore the note in half in his haste. He stared at the long, slanted handwriting for a moment, slowly processing the words. It took him a second or two, then he let out a sigh of relief.

_I have found your burglar. We are meeting on the 26th of April at Bag End, the end of Bagshot Row, Hobbiton, the Shire.  
Gandalf_

It was short and hardly contained even the bare minimum of information that he would need to get to their meeting place —resembling the wizard’s usual cryptic form of communication. It was no wonder that he’d had such a difficult time finding the place last time. 

Thorin would have been irritated if it weren’t for the fact that the note served as proof that everything he remembered hadn’t just been some elaborate hallucination. He truly was back in time, which meant he had another chance. He could right his past wrongs. He could reclaim Erebor again. He could save his sister-sons from their fates —because though he hadn’t actually been told what had become of Kili, he knew there was no way the younger of his two heirs had survived. He would have tried to avenge his brother and in turn lost his own life.

Swallowing hard, Thorin pushed the thought from his mind and slipped the note into his pocket then went about gathering his things and getting dressed. Their deaths were not something he wanted to dwell on at the moment. He had things he needed to to and places he needed to be. First thing first, he had to go recruit their burglar —preferably without getting lost this time.

He ate a quick breakfast at the inn, then was out of Bree and on the road to the Shire before the town of men had even fully awoken. He had about two days before he would be expected at Bag End, and the sooner he started on his way, the sooner he would get there. If he was lucky, maybe he wouldn’t be late this time around.

 

Throughout the day, Thorin didn’t stop once to take a break, choosing instead to keep up a maintainable pace the entire time. When it grew close to noon and he became hungry, he dug food out of his pack and ate as he walked. It was probably for the best, anyway. At least walking, he could count his steps to distract himself. If he spent too much time sitting idle, he would start thinking about everything that had happened, and what was going to happen next, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to do that just yet. He didn’t want to contemplate what the gold sickness had done to him, or the battle, or his death. 

So he walked. And he counted. And this time he actually looked at the lands on either side of the road that he traveled.

The first time he had gone through there he had been unconcerned about his surroundings, too focused on his destination to care about the places he passed to reach it. Now he paid attention, if only to keep his mind off of other, more unpleasant things.

For the first stretch, the road was lined with trees that stood tall overhead and grew close together so that he could not see far into the forest’s depths. Shadows dwelled beneath the trees, dark and unwelcoming, and he felt that there could be somebody watching him and he would never even know it. 

It reminded him of walking the paths of Mirkwood. 

His only comfort was that his path seemed to take him around the perimeter of the forest rather than straight through. 

It was around noon when the trees finally began to spread out, getting far enough apart that the sunlight could stream through their branches and reach the grassy ground below. The forest lost its threatening atmosphere, and became full of light and life. Thorin thought that at some point, he must have crossed into the Shire, though the border had not been obviously marked. He figured that assumption was right, as it didn’t take long for him to begin spotting signs of the land’s inhabitants.

Low fences ran parallel to the road, keeping flocks of sheep within them. Houses eventually started cropping up every so often, and though they weren’t built into the sides of hills, he knew that they belonged to hobbits because their size was too small to be home to any men and their doors and windows were mostly round in shape. The hobbits themselves must have been there as well, though most of them he saw only from a distance. He did pass a cart or two that were on the road, but he didn’t interact with their drivers, nor they him except to side-eye him warily as he went by. 

Their attention made him nervous, but he supposed that he had the same effect on them. He must make an uncomfortable sight —a lone dwarf with sword and shield by his side, a traveling cloak around his shoulders, and a rucksack on his back. 

To them, he probably looked like trouble. 

He couldn’t blame them for thinking so.

It was nearing late evening when another path branched off the road and went to the left, cresting a small hill and disappearing over the other side. Briefly, Thorin wondered where it might lead, but he dismissed his curiosity easily enough and continued on his way. Wherever the path went, it wasn’t to Hobbiton, so at the present it didn’t matter. 

He made it maybe another mile or two when he finally had to stop, at least for a while. The sun was setting westward, meaning it lay directly ahead of him and its light was hurting his eyes. If he continued on, he would surely go blind due to the brightness of it. So he decided to wait until it disappeared behind the hills in the distance —hills which were a sign that he was drawing ever nearer to his destination. 

Once the sun was low enough for him to go on, he continued walking for a while longer, only stopping when the light faded from the sky and it began to grow dark.

He made his camp off the side of the road, though he decided not to bother with a fire. He would be warm enough with his cloak, and he didn’t feel like trying to find wood to burn out in the grassy fields —he doubted there was any to be found there anyways. 

The first time he had spent the night camped on the side of the road in the Shire, he’d had difficulty finding any sleep. He had been alone in an unfamiliar territory, and had spent the majority of those dark hours watching his surroundings with suspicion —unwilling to be caught off his guard in this strange place. Now, though, he had no trouble getting comfortable in a soft patch of grass. He no longer feared that he would be in danger here. Bilbo had spoken of his homeland as a place of peace and comfort, free of all the conflict of the world outside its borders.

And if his One thought the Shire to be safe, then Thorin would trust him.

It didn’t take long for sleep to take him.

 

Thorin spent the majority of the next day making his way closer and closer to the place he was meant to meet up with the rest of his company, and he was pretty sure that he was making better time than when he last passed through —probably because he wasn’t pausing at every little settlement along the way thinking it was Hobbiton. This time, at least, he knew where he was going. He could hardly be blamed for getting lost before, though. From what he had seen so far, there were no road signs to be found, and no signs to give a name to the villages along the road either. 

He could only assume that the reason behind it was because the Shire rarely had visitors, and if you were there, then you should already know where you were. Which was all well and good when you lived there, but for him, it only made things more difficult. He really should mention the wizard’s horrible directions as soon as he saw him later that day. Not that his complaint would make much of a difference. 

 

It was nearing his second evening of walking when he spotted three familiar figures sitting beside the road up ahead, and he couldn’t help but feel slightly relieved at the sight of them. 

Picking up his pace, it only took him a minute or two to reach the place where his friends were resting. None of them seemed to notice his approach until he called out to them, but after that it only took moments after that for them to crowd around and greet him enthusiastically. 

Bifur was speaking quickly in khuzdul and signing so fast in iglishmêk that Thorin could hardly understand what he was saying, Bombur was asking about his journey, and Bofur removed his hat and swept into a low bow —then promptly stood back up and gave him a wide grin. 

For a moment, Thorin was surprised to find how relieved he was to see them, then he realised for the first time that he had never learned what had become of the rest of his Company after the battle. He knew of his own fate, and the fates of his sister-sons, but he had no idea if any of the others had perished. He supposed it didn’t matter now, anyways, he wasn’t going to let any of them die this time around. Still, it was comforting to see these three now and know that they were alright.

“I hope you do not mind if I join you,” he said, nodding to the three of them in turn.

Bofur’s grin only grew at his words, and he stuffed his hat back atop his head. “Course we don’t mind, as long as you don’t mind our gabbling.”

Thorin couldn’t help but return the smile, nodding. “Not at all. I have been on my own for quite a while, now. Conversation while we travel would be a welcome change.”

They took a couple of minutes for the three to gather their things from the side of the road, then they were walking again, and Thorin felt a great deal happier than he had since waking up in his room in Bree —longer, even. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he had been truly happy. Long before they entered the Lonely Mountain, no doubt—

Shaking his head to rid himself of the thought, he spoke up quickly, wanting to think about anything other than the madness that had taken hold of his mind upon reaching Erebor. 

“How has your journey from Ered Luin been so far?” he asked Bofur. “Not too difficult, I hope.” 

He listened as the three recounted their travels, glad to have friends there to distract him. And that’s exactly what they were, he realised —his friends. 

 

Just as their troop of four came to the bridge that would allow them to cross the river and enter Hobbiton, the sun had finished setting, the sky was a dark shade of indigo, and the stars were beginning to show their bright and shining faces. The night was calm, the only sounds being that of the laughter coming from the tavern a short ways back down the path, the musical chirping of night-bugs, and the turn of the water wheel in the river. And, of course, the quiet chatter of Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur.

Thorin —who had withdrawn from the conversation soon after he had joined them— walked a few strides ahead of the other three, and led the way across the bridge into the quiet village. He was too deep in his thoughts to concentrate on the words of his companions, or to contribute any of his own. 

Much of his travel through the Shire over the past two days had seemed only vaguely familiar, and it hadn’t been until very recently that he started to recognize where they were with more certainty. The last time he had been there, he spent more time wandering around Hobbiton looking for the place in Gandalf’s note than he liked to admit. He was pretty sure that he had walked every path of the village at least twice before he finally found his way. It had been more than a little frustrating back then, but now it meant that he was reasonably confident in his ability to reach Bag End without too much backtracking. 

He hoped.

Making their way down the paths that wound around and between hills, Thorin distractedly noticed that many of the hobbit holes they passed still had light streaming out from their windows, meaning that it was early enough in the night that people were still awake. Before, most of the village had been dark and quiet. He figured that he was probably making better time now, and with any luck he wouldn’t be so late in arriving at their meeting place. 

Maybe he would actually make it in time to take part in the meal that he had missed out on at the beginning of their journey to Erebor. More importantly, maybe he could make a better first impression on their host and prospective burglar. Tired, hungry, and eager to begin his quest, he hadn’t made the most gracious of guests.

In retrospect, he _had_ actually been more than a little rude to the hobbit that was being so kind as to provide all thirteen of them with food and shelter for the night. Granted, he had been reeling from the first sight of his One and wasn’t really in the right state of mind. 

So deep in his own thoughts, Thorin nearly didn’t notice when a large group of dwarves and one wizard came into sight on the path up ahead. If it wasn’t for Bofur’s cry of greeting to them, he may have passed them all up entirely. As it was, his attention fell to the dwarves and he counted them as he approached, glad to find that all but five of his Company were present —Dwalin, Balin, Fili, Kili, and of course Bilbo, were the only ones missing.

Once they reached the rest of their group, they all took a moment to greet each other. After receiving a rather firm slap on the back from Gloin and an inquiry of his health from Oin, Thorin found himself approaching Gandalf, who stood a bit separated from them, silently watching the exchange. The wizard nodded to him kindly, but it wasn’t until they all started up the path again that they spoke.

“Your message was rather vague in giving directions to this place,” Thorin said simply, ignoring the talking from the rest of the dwarves behind them.

Gandalf let out something that could either be a cough or a huff of laughter. “And yet you found your way here all the same. Tell me, how did your meeting with the council go?”

“I would rather wait until we are all gathered to speak of it.” Thorin did his best to keep his tone cool, but he couldn’t stop the slight grimace from showing on his face. The disappointment from that meeting was still rather fresh, despite it having taken place over a year ago for him.

The wizard hummed with understanding but said nothing else, which Thorin was grateful for. They were nearing the top of the hill, and he wanted to watch for Bag End rather than engage in conversation. 

The moment he caught sight of the short wooden fence and the green door beyond that, his heartbeat and pace both quickened. He was the first to reach the gate, and he didn’t wait for the others to open it and walk into the yard. Circles of yellow light were on the grass, cast from the round windows on either side of the door. He stopped a few strides from it, his feet suddenly heavy as boulders.

On the other side of that door resided his sister’s sons, his best friend and shield brother, his most trusted advisor, and his One —two of which had recently lost their lives in a battle against an army of orcs, and all of which he had both wronged and betrayed in his madness. They, of course, would have no knowledge of any of that, but his guilt still weighed heavily on his heart nonetheless. 

How could he face them after everything he had done? After doubting their loyalty, valuing a shimmering stone over their worth, and threatening their lives? 

The simple answer to that question was that he couldn’t. 

Still, no matter what shame he carried with him, he had to suck it up and walk through that door. If he didn’t, he couldn’t fix his mistakes, and that was the whole point of him being there. 

He heard rather than saw his companions gathering behind him. Knowing he couldn’t just stand there forever without raising any questions from them, Thorin drew in a deep breath. Then, doing what he could to smother his anxious thoughts, he took the last couple of steps and went to knock on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that it would take more than two days for Thorin to walk all the way from Bree to Hobbiton, but let's just pretend for the sake of this fic that they're closer to each other than they actually are. Or maybe dwarves are just capable of traveling large distances in short amounts of time...


	4. Familiar Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Company begins to arrive at Bag End, Bilbo does his best to be a good host while trying to keep calm in the face of re-meeting all of his dearest friends —many of which are meant to be dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter than the others, but I hope it will be just as good :)

Early in the afternoon on the 26th of Astron, Bilbo headed for his kitchen. It was a bit soon to start preparing for supper, as the first dwarf wouldn’t even arrive until after dark if his memory served him correctly, but he could at least start on making extra seed cakes and maybe a few batches of biscuits. He seemed to remember that it hadn’t taken very long to run out of both the last time around. 

Besides, working in the warm kitchen, mixing cake batter, and being surrounded by the smell of baking things gave him something to keep his mind off of what was to come later. If he thought about it too much, he feared he was prone to dissolving into another panic. 

So he baked and cooked until every available surface in the kitchen was taken up with food. It was nearing the evening when Bilbo finally forced himself to stop and clean up. He decided to take a quick bath —both to get the flour out of his hair and because he knew he wouldn’t have another chance to properly bathe until they reached Rivendell.

Unfortunately, bathing didn’t hold the same kind of distraction as working in the kitchen did. His mind started to wander, and before long he found himself thinking about the past —or maybe now it was the future.

The last time he had seen any members of the Company had been after the War of the Ring had finally ended. He was still living in Rivendell then, and Gloin had visited to attend a meeting that would recount everything that had happened, in a way ending the journey at the place it had begun; in Lord Elrond’s council. Bilbo particularly remembered the dwarf’s reaction to his son’s relationship with the elf prince, Legolas. The old dwarf had thrown a fit —which involved many despairing words recalling the Company’s imprisonment in the dungeons of Mirkwood— and it had served as a great source of amusement for Bilbo. 

Before that, he had seen the other dwarves only a handful of times. One of the most memorable of them had been when Bifur, Bofur, and Nori had come to escort him from the Shire when he left on his one hundred and eleventieth birthday. 

It was with great sorrow that he later learned of Balin, Ori, and Oin’s demise at Moria —he mourned them for a long while after Frodo had told him of that.

Now, in only a couple hour’s time, his friends would be arriving at his front door, alive and well.

_But they won’t be your friends,_ Bilbo reminded himself somewhat glumly.

The dwarves coming later that day were the same ones that he had met during that first unexpected party, but they weren’t _his_ dwarves. They weren’t the dwarves that he had called his family for so long. Not really. None of them had yet shared in the perils of a long journey with him, and none would share in his memories of their adventures. 

To them, he would simply be Master Baggins; the strange halfling who had agreed to be their burglar.

It was with that unpleasant thought rolling around in his mind that Bilbo finally climbed out of the now tepid bath water and dressed in some fresh clothing. Outside, he could see that the sun was beginning to set and the sky had taken on a pinkish hue. He estimated that he had maybe an hour left until people started showing up, meaning that he only had an hour left to prepare himself for what could easily be the most difficult thing he had ever gone through.

Once he had finished buttoning up his waistcoat and brushing the hair on his feet, he wasted no time in hurrying back to the dining room where he began to set the table. When he had first hosted the troop of thirteen dwarves in his home, he had been caught by surprise and there had been nothing more laid out on the table than a baked fish and a couple of biscuits. This time around, he was determined to do better. By the time his guests arrived, there would be a full meal ready and waiting for them, and there would certainly be enough seats to accommodate the entire Company or his name wasn’t Baggins.

 

When the first knock of the evening echoed through Bag End, Bilbo dropped the biscuit he had been nibbling on and practically ran to the entry hall. Bursting out of the parlour, he skidded to a halt —somehow managing not to trip over his own two feet in the process— then took a deep breath. Smoothing his face into what he hoped was a pleasant smile, he reached out to the door with a shaking hand and pulled it open.

Considering the circumstances, meeting Gandalf there in the past hadn’t been all that strange. The wizard had been a constant in Bilbo’s life for several decades and could be counted on to never really change. As such, Bilbo hadn’t noticed anything different about him except for the fact that he was once again donning his grey robes and hat rather than the lighter ones he had worn ever since becoming Gandalf the White. He had expected —or at the very least hoped— that seeing the dwarves again would turn out much the same. That he wouldn’t be shocked or too caught off guard with their appearances. 

As it turned out, that had been a fool’s hope, and catching sight of the dwarf currently standing on his front mat was a much different experience.

The last that Bilbo had heard of Dwalin before setting off for Valinor was that the old dwarf was still very much alive and kicking —acting as Captain of the Royal Guard of Erebor and protecting the home the Company had fought so hard to reclaim. While on their journey, it had taken a long while for him and the tattooed dwarf to begin trusting one another. It wasn’t until after they had spent a few comfortable days under Beorn’s roof that Dwalin had finally began to warm up to him. Still, Bilbo liked to think that the two of them had become good friends before the end. It was for that reason that the sight of the warrior in front of him took his breath away and left him at a loss for words.

Whatever greeting he had planned promptly slipped from his mind and he was left utterly speechless. For a few moments, he could do nothing but stare, his smile slowly shrinking.

“What? Am I late, or something?” the dwarf asked gruffly, a slight scowl on his face.

The question brought him back to his senses somewhat and he shook his head quickly. “No, not at all. You’re the first to arrive, actually.” He gave a hasty bow then stepped out of the way and motioned the dwarf inside. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service. Please do come in. I’ve just put supper on the table.”

Seeming hesitant to accept the invitation inside, he inspected Bilbo cautiously for a moment. In the end, the mention of food must have been enough to convince him because he stepped through the door and introduced himself. “Dwalin.”

He allowed Bilbo to take his cloak, then followed behind him as he lead the way to the dining room. At the sight of the meal on the table, Dwalin relaxed and immediately sank into the nearest chair, beginning to pile food up onto a plate.

Figuring that the dwarf was well enough to be left alone, Bilbo returned to the kitchen. He checked on the raspberry tart he had in the oven then pulled out the pan, placing it on the counter to cool.

When he heard the next knock a few minutes later, Bilbo left some mince pies on the table on his way through the dining room. 

Seeing Balin was no easier than seeing his brother had been —harder, even, since the old dwarf was meant to be dead— but he somehow managed not to stare for too long and gave a cheerful greeting. He lead Balin to the dining room where they found Dwalin with his hand shoved into a jar of biscuits. Noticing them, the warrior quickly abandoned it and approached his brother.

Bilbo hung back in the doorway and watched as the two teased each other and cracked their heads together.

A long time ago, the violent form of greeting would have startled him, but now he just turned away in order to hide his fond smile at the display of affection then went back to the entry hall. 

Just as he got to the door, the bell rang once, then a second time, then went silent. Knowing who would be on the other side, Bilbo had to brace himself before opening it. The two young dwarves standing there both bowed at the same time, politely introducing themselves and then standing straight again to grin at him.

_The Defiler had Fili in his grasp, dangling the young dwarf prince over the edge of the crumbling tower. Even from so far away, the terror —and even worse, the resignation— could easily be seen in his wide eyes. Beside him, Dwalin cursed softly and Thorin let out a broken gasp, but he could make no move to comfort them. All they could do was watch with horror as Fili screamed for them to run and Azog’s blade pierced him through the back. Then he fell —his limp body plummeting to the icy ground far below..._

“You must be Master Boggins!” Kili said cheerfully.

Drawn out of the terrible memory by the comment, Bilbo swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and did his very best to smile. “It’s Baggins, actually.”

“Well, Master _Baggins_ ,” Fili said, making sure to put emphasis on his name. “I hope we came in time for food.”

“You came at the perfect time,” Bilbo assured them and moved out of the way so they could both go inside.

They did so, and after closing the door, Bilbo stayed back. He watched them head in the direction of the dining room, and listened as they greeted Balin and Dwalin. Letting out a long breath, he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes tightly. Those boys...the image of their bodies lying still and lifeless before him during the funeral would forever be ingrained in his memory.

Bilbo had always heard people say that the dead looked like they were only sleeping, but he had never seen it that way. At his father’s funeral, his mother’s, and the one for the three sons of Durin, he hadn’t thought any of them looked like they were asleep. They were too still and too pale, their chests didn’t rise and fall with their breath, and their eyes didn’t flutter with their dreams. No, their bodies had been empty shells, once so full of love and life.

Death had stolen that from them, and it was something that could never be returned again.

At least, that was what he had always thought.

Now, standing there and listening to the happy chatter of Fili and Kili, Bilbo wasn’t quite sure what to believe anymore.

He stayed in that spot for several minutes, trying and only somewhat succeeding to bring his nerves back under control. It wasn’t until he heard the sound of multiple people entering his yard that he opened his eyes and straightened up once again. After a short moment of hesitation, he headed for the door, deciding to answer it before everyone could begin crowding around —he wanted to avoid having another pile up of dwarves in his doorway, if he could.

When he pulled open the door, Bilbo had been expecting to see many familiar faces before him. He was prepared to find eight more dwarves and Gandalf. What he did see, however, was certainly not what he had expected.

They were all there, coming up the path through the yard, with Gandalf at the back of them all, just barely closing the gate. At the front of the group, standing there with his fist poised to knock on the door, was Thorin Oakenshield.

Despite all the fretting Bilbo had done over the past two days about not mucking up the first impression the Company’s leader would get from him, his mind immediately went blank and he could do nothing but gape dumbly up at the dwarf before him. 

The dwarf who Bilbo had chased after on an adventure eight decades ago. 

Who had, in the short span of a year, become one of his dearest friends. 

Who was supposed to be dead. 

And who was _supposed to be late, for Yavanna’s sake._

Evidently, he was neither of those things —dead or late— because there he stood, just as majestic and blue-eyed as Bilbo remembered him being. Also, just as inconsiderate as ever. 

He wasn’t supposed to be there! At least, not yet! 

Bilbo had thought he’d have close to another hour to prepare for facing him again. He wasn’t ready. Granted, he wasn’t sure he could ever be completely ready for something like this, but _still—_

“You are Master Baggins, I presume?”

Jolted out of his inner monologue of panic, Bilbo gasped like a fish out of water and nodded so quickly it made him dizzy. Clutching onto the door to keep himself standing, he attempted to speak, but what came out was a spill of words that were nearly unintelligible. “Yes! At your service, Bilbo Baggins, and all that.” It ended in a bit of a squeak and he winced.

So much for a good first impression. 

In the yard, the dwarves failed to stifle their amused sniggers, but Thorin just stared at him silently for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. He was probably already beginning to question the wisdom in Gandalf’s choice in burglar, and maybe contemplating whether he should just turn around again and go back the way he had come —find someone more suitable for their quest. Surprisingly, he didn’t do that. 

Instead, he asked, “may we come in?”

Bilbo didn’t have it in him to give a coherent answer, so he just pulled the door open wider and stepped back to grant them all entrance.

So it was that he spent the next handful of seconds trying to compose himself as the large group of dwarves all filed into his home, each introducing themselves as they passed him by. 

Gandalf came in last, and he paused to give Bilbo a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before moving to hang his hat on the wall. 

It was enough to bring Bilbo back to himself and he hurriedly closed the door before squeezing his way through the Company to lead them to the dining room. He paused when he reached the front of the group, though, finding himself once again face to face with his long dead friend. Or, face to chest as it were, seeing as Thorin was a good head taller than him.

He took a few quick steps back to put the space between the two of them, then stood still as the dwarf looked him up and down appraisingly.

Bilbo had to force himself not to fidget under that heavy gaze, and he did his best to stand taller, holding his head high. At the very least, he could be glad that he wasn’t wearing his dressing robe this time around. Instead, he wore a powder blue vest that he had found in the back of his closet and a darker blue tie around his neck. 

Still, he couldn’t help but feel suddenly very self conscious. Not that there was anything he could do about it now.

Finally, Thorin met his eyes and looked at him yet again with a strange expression on his face before opening his mouth to speak.

Bracing himself for whatever harsh comment was about to come his way, Bilbo did his best to hold the dwarf’s stare.

“You look more like a grocer than a burglar.”

The words were not said in the disapproving tone that Bilbo had expected, but rather came out softly, as though the one who spoke them had just had some great revelation. It took him by surprise for a moment, but he somehow managed to recover quickly.

This, at least, was a situation he was prepared for.

Not that he would ever admit it to anyone else, but Bilbo had spent a great amount of time during the quest —and after it, for that matter— imagining how he could have responded to what had probably meant to be an insult. He had always been told that he had a silver tongue, but on that very first night of his adventure, with a troop of dwarves crowded into his smial, his words had failed him. He wasn’t about to let that happen again.

“And you look more like a blacksmith than a king. I suppose that means you and I have something in common.” Bilbo took a moment to look Thorin up and down just as he had done to him moments before, then addressed the rest of the Company. “If you’ll just follow me, I’ll show you all to supper.”

Stepping around the stupefied dwarf, Bilbo headed for the dining room and did his best to ignore his pounding heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the wonderful comments and feedback you've given me so far! I treasure every word of it <3
> 
> Up until this point, every chapter was already written and only needed minimal editing before I could post it. Now, though, I've reached the part where everything is incomplete and disorganized and will need a lot more rewriting. So it's going to take a bit longer for chapters to be posted. I anticipate Chapter 5 will be finished by Wednesday, so please be patient!


	5. Unexpected Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the quest has even begun, things are already changing and Thorin suspects Gandalf has something to do with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I lied. I finished the chapter earlier than I thought I would. You're welcome, I guess... ;)

Stunned, Thorin stood rooted to the spot as Bilbo stepped past him and headed for the dining room. He was speechless, and not just because the hobbit had responded to his grocer comment without so much as a stutter.

He had forgotten what Bilbo looked like at the beginning of the quest —before falling victim to bad weather and orcs and all the hardships that came with being on the road. Had forgotten what he looked like underneath all of the dirt and dried blood, when exhaustion had not yet put dark bags under his eyes.

Now there he was, golden-brown curls and all, not a trace of weariness to be seen. His patchwork robe and dismayed frown that he had worn the last time Thorin showed up on his doorstep were nowhere to be seen, replaced with a blue waistcoat and rosy cheeks, and there was a sense of ease that Thorin couldn’t remember seeing in ages —at least, not since their time at Beorn’s. 

And that wasn’t even the most jarring part of his change in appearance since Thorin had last seen the hobbit in Erebor.

No, what shocked him the most was the fact that Bilbo’s clothing no longer hung loosely on his frame, but instead hugged his curves —especially around the middle— and his face was rounder than he remembered. Less gaunt looking.

How had he never noticed all the weight that Bilbo had lost from beginning to end of their quest? The change was so obvious now, it was painful. The fact that could have ever allowed one of his Company to deteriorate so drastically was a disgrace. Was he really so blind?

More than that, how had he ever thought to bring such a soft creature along on their quest in the first place? Dwalin had been right all those months ago when he said that gentle-folk had no place in the wild, yet Thorin had still agreed to let the hobbit go without any argument at all. He had even gone so far as to refuse any responsibility should their burglar fall. He had _expected_ him to fall, but had done nothing to prevent Bilbo from leaving the comfort of his home. 

He knew from experience that Bilbo was far more capable than he looked, but seeing him as he was now felt like a punch to the gut. How could he take someone as innocent as this out into the world in good conscience _again?_ Was he really so selfish as to—

“Uncle!”

The sound of Fili’s voice broke him from his thoughts and he whirled around, suddenly feeling like his heart was in his throat. Both of his sister-sons were there, sending him their familiar, large grins.

His boys.

He had helped raised them as though they were his own sons. Had watched them grow into two strong dwarves. And had sent them both to their deaths when he had been too much of a fool to recognize the trap on Ravenhill for what it was.

Out of all the many mistakes he had made throughout his life —throughout the quest— that was the one that he regretted most of all. It was something he would never forgive himself for, and he would keep the memory of it with him until the day he drew his final breath, however long that may be. 

Still, despite his regrets, there they stood with no injury to be seen and the glimmer of mischief in their eyes that had disappeared sometime during their long trek through Mirkwood. He hadn’t realised how much he had missed the sight of it, until now. 

Kili spoke then, sounding as cheerful as ever. “I’m surprised you got here so early. We were worried you’d get lost somewhere, and we’d have to come and find—”

Cutting him off before he could finish the comment, Thorin stepped forward and took them both into a tight embrace. With Kili pulled tightly against his side and Fili’s head tucked beneath his chin, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, fighting off the wave of emotions that threatened to take him over.

Watching Azog hold his golden-haired heir high and stab him through the back before dropping him to the foot of the tower far below had been the worst moment of Thorin’s life —even more so than the day that Smaug had taken Erebor. And later, as he lay bleeding out on the ice, he had felt it in his heart when Kili fell. He hadn’t needed to see the body to know that he, too, had perished. 

With both of them gone, it had been all the easier to stop fighting his approaching death and allow the darkness to take him. For he had no desire to live in a world without them in it. Of all the stars in his life, those two had always shone the brightest.

Now, to hold them both in his arms once again was a gift beyond value, and he silently thanked Mahal for giving it to him. Though he knew he didn’t deserve it.

“You do not know how glad I am to see you,” Thorin said, the words no louder than a breath. 

He held onto them for another second or two longer, then finally released them and took a small step back. Their wide-eyed shock was enough to send another twinge of guilt through him. 

Thinking back, he tried to remember the last time he had held them in such a way, then realised that he couldn’t. Not once over their journey had he offered either of them more comfort than a squeeze to the shoulder, and before that…it could well have been years since he’d shown so much affection. He had been so busy taking care of his people and then the Company that he hadn’t even thought to do more for his sister-sons. 

That was yet another thing he swore to fix. 

Their shock didn’t last long, and soon enough their wide grins were once again on their faces.

“We missed you, too,” Kili said brightly. 

Thorin’s eyes traveled away from his nephews then, trailing over the rest of the company and coming to a stop on Balin and Dwalin. Both were looking at him questioningly, but he just shook his head, not wanting to try and explain himself to them. If he was lucky, they would leave it be and not bother him about it. 

Balin stared at him for a moment, then seemed to let it go and shrugged. “Why don’t we go and eat before all of the food gets cold.”

The suggestion was met with agreement all around, and Thorin allowed Fili and Kili to usher him into the dining room —the rest of the Company following right behind them. 

 

For all the complaining Bilbo had done during the first journey about dwarves pilfering his pantry, Thorin was more than surprised to find that there was already a feast’s worth of food prepared and laid out and waiting to be eaten. Not only that, but there was even enough seating for them all —fifteen mismatched chairs all placed neatly around the dining room table. 

As they all took their seats and began to dish their food, Thorin noticed the empty chair beside Gandalf and glanced around the room in time to see Bilbo moving toward the kitchen.

Before he so much as thought about it, Thorin called out to him. “Will you not dine with us, Master Baggins? It would be a shame for you to prepare all of this food just to end up not eating any of it.” 

Pausing, Bilbo turned slightly to look back at him and blinked a couple of times. Then he seemed to shake off whatever thought had made him look so quizzical before dipping his head in a slight nod. “Thank you for the concern, but there’s no need for it. I’ve been snacking on the food all day, and had quite enough of it. If you all somehow manage to eat the entire table before I return, I won’t be too disappointed.” 

With that, the hobbit disappeared into the kitchen. 

Thorin ignored the urge to go after him and turned his attention back to the table, surveying the spread before him once again.

It was as though their host had been forewarned of the Company’s arrival, down to how many would be coming, and with enough time for him to properly prepare for his guests. Though, Thorin had no idea how that was possible.

He had started this journey again with the intent of changing things for the better, but he hadn’t expected their night at Bag End to be much different than what it had been before. He couldn’t have warned Bilbo if he had wanted to. Yet, somehow, the hobbit seemed to be more than prepared.

Actually, Bilbo didn’t act at all dismayed to find his home being overrun by a troop of thirteen dwarves. If anything, he seemed almost happy —albeit somewhat nerve wracked and restless. 

Thorin could think of no possible way for Bilbo to have known that they were coming, unless…

Between spoonfuls of the hearty stew that he had filled his bowl with, Thorin looked at Gandalf suspiciously.

On the last journey, Gandalf hadn’t so much as told Bilbo a single thing about the quest before he had sent for all the dwarves to gather at their unwilling host’s home. This time, Bilbo had known in advance that they were coming, and hadn’t balked at the size of their group. He had known that Thorin was a king without anyone making an introduction. 

And how else would Bilbo know, unless Gandalf had already told him?

But why would he give Bilbo more warning this time? He had to have known that the hobbit would raise less of a fuss if he had more information. And if he knew that, what else might the old wizard know?

While the rest of his Company ate and talked, Thorin stayed mostly silent and kept to his own racing thoughts —though that didn’t stop him from noticing Bilbo slip back into the room and take his seat beside Gandalf about halfway through the meal.

 

Eventually —when it got to the point that everybody had eaten their fill— plates and food started flying through the air, and the Company burst into song about blunting knives and bending forks, and Thorin almost jumped up from his seat, ready to put a stop to it all. 

Though he hadn’t been present for that particular part of the meal during the first quest, he remembered how Bilbo had griped about the scene for several days afterward, bemoaning the treatment that his mother’s beloved pottery and silverware had received. Thorin knew the dwarves wouldn’t break a single dish, but he also knew just how important all of these things were to their burglar, and he had every intention of starting their friendship with Bilbo out on the right foot. It was for that reason that he nearly called a halt to all of the merrymaking.

Nearly.

Just as he was about to shout, he spotted Bilbo. 

To his surprise, the hobbit wasn’t running about trying to protect his precious tableware. Actually, he wasn’t doing _anything_. He simply stood there, watching it all go down with a sense of calm. More than that, he seemed to be content —almost amused, even. 

So after a moment, Thorin sank back down into his seat and let the Company have their fun. With everything they would be soon facing while on the road to Erebor, Mahal knows they deserved to enjoy themselves a bit. 

Especially seeing as Thorin would soon have to rain on their good cheer with his news that they would have no army at their back when they took down the dragon.

Yes, he could let them enjoy their time there for a little while longer.

 

Telling the Company about Dain’s refusal to aid them went just as Thorin had known it would. The news put a damper on everyone’s spirits and, looking around at them all, he could see the dismay and discouragement on all of their faces —they looked exactly as they had the first time he had told them. Seeing the solemn expressions on the faces of both his sister-son’s was too much for him to bear, and he immediately called their attention again.

“It does not matter if we are fourteen or fourteen hundred, I would take every single one of you over an army from the Iron Hills any day.” He cast his gaze around the table, looking each of them in the eye as he spoke. “Loyalty, honor, and willing hearts —that is all we need to see this task done. That is how I know we _will_ kill the dragon, and we _will_ take back Erebor. We have everything we need right here in this room.”

For a short moment, the room was silent before the dwarves all let out a cheer. After that, they were all much more optimistic in their planning —a fact that Thorin was grateful for. Gandalf produced the map and key from somewhere inside his robes, a couple of small arguments broke out before being quickly halted again, and they made the decision to enter the mountain via the secret door. 

All in all, it went well.

Still, Thorin had the sense that something was off, but it was until the Company began to migrate into the parlour that he realised what it was.

With all the talk of quests and dragons, Bilbo took it all much better than Thorin remembered. He hadn’t fainted when Bofur spoke of furnaces with wings, and seemed to be quietly resigned to the idea of being burned to death by dragon fire. When presented with the contract, he took it quietly, but didn’t move to read it —as though he already knew what it would say. 

The hobbit stayed in the parlour with them for only a minute or two —just long enough to explain everyone’s sleeping arrangements for the night— and then he slipped away, saying that he needed a quiet place to think.

Thorin watched him go, then glanced over to Gandalf once Bilbo was out of sight. 

Just how much had the wizard told him? Bilbo hadn’t once protested at being called a burglar and hadn’t balked at mention of all the danger they could face on the road. Gandalf must have told him _something_ , and that something must have been a much more detailed explanation than he had given the last time around. 

When the old man noticed him watching, Thorin pursed his lips tightly and looked away, turning his gaze to the low fire burning in the hearth. 

He would have to keep a close eye on the wizard. Something told him that Gandalf knew more than he was letting on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not, Bilbo and Thorin will have a lot more interaction with each other in the next chapter!


	6. Going on an Adventure...Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo finds himself setting out on a journey to the Lonely Mountain for the second time in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you all so much for your feedback! I really appreciate it <3

With supper finally finished, all talk of dragons diminished, and sleeping arrangements decided on, Bilbo finally had the chance to take a free moment to himself. Leaving the parlour, he quietly opened the front door and stepped outside into the cool night air, then headed to the bench and sat down. He stared blankly out into the darkness for a second or two, taking slow breaths and trying to let himself wind down.

Unsurprisingly, the evening had thrown Bilbo into an emotional turmoil that had been exhausting for him to try and control. He had constantly been on the verge of either crying or laughing, but he was never quite sure which. Either way, he didn’t want to draw any questions by suddenly having an emotional breakdown in front of the whole company. After so long of not seeing any of his old friends, having them all there was nearly overwhelming. Not to mention the fact that several of them were supposed to be dead. 

Out of everything, the hardest part so far had been pretending that he didn’t know any of them. He didn’t think they’d take kindly to the fact that he could repeat some of Bombur’s secret recipes by heart, or that he remembered stories of Gloin’s son and wife, or that he knew of young Ori’s talents when it came to drawing and writing. 

He knew things about every member of the company that no stranger could possibly know. 

Like how Fili and Kili always ended up wrapped around each other as they slept and how Dwalin hated anything looking even remotely like a mushroom getting anywhere near his food. And Thorin, well... 

He knew things about their king that not even his best friend knew. 

They were things that he wouldn’t even know if it weren’t for the weeks spent trapped in the elven king Thranduil’s dungeons, and the confessions that made there in the dark. 

And Bilbo had to act as if none of it had happened because if the company found out just how much he knew they would surely leave him behind. For gaining a dwarf’s trust was a difficult process and revealing that you knew some of their deepest secrets and fears was not the best way to go about it. Even if they had been one of your dearest friends in another life.

The thoughts were doing nothing to help him and Bilbo felt his eyes start to sting.

Sniffling, he buried his face in his hands and drew a shaky breath. How ridiculous, he thought, for someone as old as him to cry about things that had happened such a long time ago. He’d gone through so much in his life from spending the first fifty years of it alone, to going on an adventure, finding friends, and then losing those friends, just to end up alone again— and it hardly seemed fair that he had to go through it all again. Not to mention all of that business with that damned ring. He never wanted to see that thing again after everything poor Frodo had been put through because of it.

But he would do it, if he meant having even just a little bit more time with his friends. 

With Thorin.

The dwarf had been unusually...pleasant, Bilbo thought. There had been no sign of the cold, unwelcoming behavior that he had been subject to the last time. There was no scorn in his eyes when Thorin looked at him, no questions about his ability to act as the Company’s burglar, and no demeaning comments —aside from the one about looking like a grocer, but even that had been more of an observation than an insult. 

He hadn’t said much to Bilbo, but what he did say had been nothing but respectful.

It was surprising, to say the least. 

Bilbo had been prepared for the blatant insults and less than grateful behavior, and he wasn’t sure what to make of what he actually ended up getting. He had no idea what to make of any of it. 

The only thing that Bilbo had changed on this quest so far was his own behavior. He hadn’t complained, cried, whined, or fainted at all that night, and it seemed that just that small change had made all the difference. Who could have known that the only thing he needed to do to gain their leader’s respect was to not swoon at the slightest mention of dragons?

Bilbo didn’t know how long he sat there like that, but it didn’t seem like a lot of time had passed before someone nearby cleared their throat and broke him from his thoughts. He jolted, sitting up and turning to see none other than Thorin Oakenshield himself —as though just thinking about him could summon the dwarf there.

Bilbo sucked in a sharp breath and stared up at him with wide eyes. He had spent the evening avoiding looking at Thorin, afraid that it would ruin his control of his emotions. One wrong word, one stray glance, and he would break down.

And after all that effort, there he was. There was no way that Bilbo could avoid him now. Not when it was just the two of them.

“Master Oakenshield,” Bilbo managed to say, bracing himself against his fraying emotions and putting on what he hoped was a welcoming smile. “Can I help you? If there’s something you need, I can—” As he spoke, he had begun to stand from his seat, but the dwarf raised a hand to stop him.

Thorin watched him for a moment, an unreadable look on his face. In the dark, the blue of his eyes looked black. One side of his face was lit up by the light emanating from the window, and the other half was hidden in shadow. 

“Something troubles you,” he said eventually.

After a short moment of hesitation, Bilbo sighed and sank back down onto the bench, rubbing his face wearily. He didn’t look at Thorin when he spoke.

“Yes, well, you’ve just asked me to join you on a dangerous quest that I may not come back from. I suppose I’m a bit apprehensive.”

“You do not have to come.”

The words were said so softly that Bilbo nearly didn’t hear them. But hear them he did, and he shot Thorin a surprised look, just to find that the dwarf had his gaze directed fixedly at the sky above them. 

“You could stay here where it is safe. I would not force someone to come with us. Especially someone with so much to lose.”

Bilbo let out a startled laugh, but it was only half amused. It was interesting that Thorin would say such a thing, seeing as all that the hobbit cared about losing would be leaving in the morning to retake Erebor. He couldn’t care less about leaving Bag End and the Shire behind. This place would always be his home, of course, but he’d left it behind him over twenty years ago and he’d long since made his peace with that decision.

“I appreciate your concern, but I am coming with you.”

“Why?”

Staying quiet, Bilbo thought back on all those days spent lying in his bed in Valinor, staring out the window and wishing for something more. Truthfully, old age hadn’t been enjoyable for him. He’d hated being unable to do anything for himself, relying mainly on Frodo to take care of him.

To put it simply, he’d been bored.

It was several moments later when he finally answered the question. “I have spent quite some time waiting for an adventure.”

 

They stayed there in silence for a while, both staring up at the stars. Then, Thorin eventually excused himself and went back inside Bag End, leaving Bilbo to his thoughts once again. 

It wasn’t long after that quiet singing drifted out the cracked open window of the parlour, and it grew louder and louder until Bilbo could make out the words.

The song was one that he had heard only once before, long ago on a night much like this one. It was a deep, eerie tune created by the voices of the company mixing together. Among the words of burning trees and forgotten gold, he could easily pick out the sound of Thorin’s voice. 

There had been many occasions after the quest was over that Bilbo had tried to write down the words, but he had found that no matter how hard he tried to remember, he could never get the lyrics quite right.

Listening to the song again now, the words carried a sense of rightness with them that Bilbo hadn’t felt in a long time. And when the tears that he had suppressed all evening began to form rivers down his cheeks, he did nothing to stop them.

He stayed outside on the bench until he could no longer hear the timbre of the song drifting through the cracked open parlour window and the voices faded away. Then he slowly stood up and went back inside, peeking into the parlour quickly as he passed by.

The room was empty except for the three that would be spending the night there. Bofur was humming quietly to himself and turning his hat in his hands, Bifur sat near the fireplace staring silently into the slowly dying embers, and Bombur was sprawled out in the middle of the floor, already asleep and snoring. 

Bilbo walked through the smial once to make sure that none of the Company needed anything —stopping briefly near the guest room to listen to Fili and Kili’s quiet laughter— then shut himself in the spare room where he took off his vest and climbed into bed.

Despite how tired he was, sleep didn’t find him until much later, and he spent what felt like hours staring up at the ceiling above him, the echoes of a song replaying over and over in his head.

 

Bilbo sneezed for what felt like the hundredth time that day and had to stifle his irritated groan. Quiet snickering from up ahead drifted back to him, and he glared at the two young princes who rode near the middle of the group, imagining that he could burn holes straight through the back of their coats. Of course, he couldn’t actually do that, so when he sneezed yet again, it was met with Fili and Kili bursting into a fit of laughter that was so loud it momentarily startled some of the ponies. 

Grumbling to himself about nettlesome dwarves and horsehair, Bilbo had to hold onto the pommel of his saddle to stop himself from rubbing at his nose. 

It just didn’t make any sense. He’d had two whole days to prepare for this journey, and he’d used the time to plan all that he needed to bring with him and packed accordingly. He’d brought a warm travel cloak, a thicker jacket, a spare shirt, and had even managed to leave all of his nice waistcoats behind. He had extra provisions —which included a bag of dried jerky, two water flasks, and several seed cakes that had evaded being eaten by dwarves three nights ago at Bag End. Still, despite all the extra preparing he had done in order to be ready for this adventure, he’d somehow forgotten to bring a single handkerchief.

_Again._

For the first few days, he had been too caught up in everything to even notice it was missing, but ever since he had woken up that morning, his eyes watered relentlessly and he had a constant sniffle. 

And it stayed that way the rest of the day.

By the time they finally stopped to make camp for the night, he was pretty sure some of the dwarves were keeping a tally of how many times he sneezed. Furthermore, he thought they were actually _betting_ on it, though he had been more focused on staying in his saddle than he was on the Company’s mischief so he couldn’t be sure.

As far away as he could get from the ponies without leaving camp entirely, Bilbo sat on a log and snuffled, leaving the dwarves to gather wood for the fire, start supper, and refill their water supply from a nearby stream. 

He was in no mood to help them with any of it. Not after a whole day of being mocked for—

Another sneeze exploded from him without warning, nearly sending him toppling backwards off of the log. Cursing, he threw out his arms to keep his balance, and did his best to ignore the laughter that came from the other side of the camp and the surrounding woods. 

If this kept up he was going to end up strangling somebody with their own beard. 

It was with that thought that a large hand fell to his shoulder and he tensed, getting ready for yet another teasing remark. But when he turned to kindly tell whoever was about to bother him to sod off, he stopped himself. 

Thorin hadn’t approached him again since that night outside of Bag End, and Bilbo had yet to decide if he was grateful for it or disappointed. With Thorin usually travelling at the front of the group, and he himself normally closer to the back, he supposed that there wasn’t much chance for them to talk anyways. Though, for all that they hadn’t spoken to each other, there had been no lack of staring between them since setting out on their journey. 

While they rode, Bilbo always found his gaze being drawn to the front of the line, and he would sometimes just stare for hours at a time. His only excuse was that he still was getting used to the fact that the dwarf was alive and well —he ignored the voice in the back of his head telling him that he didn’t stare at Fili or Kili near as much, or Balin, Oin, or Ori either, for that matter. 

So, Bilbo had his reasons for staring, but no matter how much he thought about it, he couldn’t fathom what reason Thorin could have to stare at him. It seemed that whenever they were stopped for a break or to make camp, he turned and there would be Thorin. He always looked away whenever their gazes met.

Maybe he stared because he was watching their burglar to judge if it was worth it to bring some gentle-hobbit along on the journey. 

Whatever the reason was, Thorin was there now, standing over him and watching him with the same unreadable look in his eyes.

As soon as Bilbo met his gaze, Thorin quickly let his hand drop from his shoulder and took half a step away from him.

“Er...hello?” Bilbo managed to get out after a moment or two of struggling to find his voice. 

Thorin merely grunted in response and thrust his hand forward, dangling something in front of the hobbit’s face. “I found this. I assume it is yours.”

Bilbo’s eyes nearly went cross-eyed as he looked at the item, then a quiet gasp escaped him and he took it quickly. “Oh! Thank you! But how did…” He stopped, realising that the dwarf was already gone, across the camp starting a conversation with Dwalin.

Blinking, he looked back down to the cloth in his hands. It was one of his handkerchiefs —a white one with his initials embroidered in the corner with blue thread. How Thorin had managed it, he had no idea, but he was grateful for it. He smiled slightly and wiped his nose before tucking the cloth into his pocket.

When he looked up again, it was to catch Fili and Kili both grinning at him smugly and an amused twinkle in Bofur’s eyes.

As he had done throughout the entire day, Bilbo decided to ignore them.

 

Two weeks into their journey and the Company had finally reached the Trollshaws, and the closer they came to the place they had made camp the first time he’d gone through this, the more anxious Bilbo became. If he didn’t think of something soon, they’d be facing three mountain trolls before they knew what had hit them. Of course, avoiding the trolls would get rid of one problem and only bring up another.

Unless they faced the foul creatures, there would be no way for them to get to the troll hoard and and retrieve the three elvish blades that had gone to Thorin, Gandalf, and himself.

They had weapons now, of course —even Bilbo had a dagger that had once belonged to his mother strapped to his belt— and though they could make do with what they had, he had no desire to do so. The elvish blades had proven to be a valuable resource, sharper than anything they currently had and able to glow blue whenever there were orcs nearby. Plus —though he hadn’t used it in Eru only knew how long— Bilbo was beginning to find that he itched to have Sting back in his hands once again.

A letter opener it may be but it had served both him and Frodo well on their adventures and he would feel safer with it back at his side.

With all his worrying keeping him distracted, it didn’t take long for them to reach the meadow where they were meant to make camp. 

Then something odd happened. 

Thorin lead the Company on a path that gave a wide berth around the charred remains of the farmhouse that rested near to the tree line, and they continued to move on without any sign of stopping. 

By that time, Bilbo started to panic. 

He hadn’t even thought about what would happen if they just passed by the trolls entirely, but the idea of leaving his sword behind made him feel ill. 

He had to find some way to stop the Company, and fast, before they got too far away from where he needed them to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting college next monday, meaning that these next three days are going to be taken up by my freshmen orientation. I'll do what I can to post the next chapter as soon as possible, but I can't make any promises because my life is about to get a bit crazy.


	7. An Evening of Misfortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin finds that making changes to a timeline might be more difficult than he originally anticipated, and maybe there are some things that just can't be avoided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologize in advance for my horrible writing skills when it comes to writing any kind of battle. I swear I did my best.

The past two weeks had passed by rather uneventfully, their only adversary thus far coming in the form of an occasional rainstorm that left them soaked and cold, but otherwise unharmed. Yet despite the ongoing peace that had accompanied them all the way from the Shire, Thorin worried more and more the closer they came to the Trollshaws. By the time they were following the road into the shadow of the woods, he was so tense he felt as though he was one of those wind up toys that toymakers used to sell in the markets of Erebor and Dale when he was a dwarfling.

If he didn’t make a decision quick, the peace might come to an end much sooner than he would like it to. 

His main concern at the moment were the three trolls of which they grew closer and closer to with every moment that they traveled.

He could still remember the coarse fabric of the sack that he had been shoved into all those months ago, and remembered his fear that their quest was going to end then and there before it had even really begun. More than that, he remembered watching half of his Company as they were turned round and round on a spit over a giant fire and thinking that he had been the one to lead them to such a terrible fate.

He had no desire to confront the trolls again. And they wouldn’t. Not if he could help it.

They would reach the place they had camped last time —the meadow with the burned farmhouse— by that coming evening, and Thorin had every intention of leading the Company straight through the meadow and onwards. He wanted to put several miles between them and the trolls before night fell.

Still, he felt sharp tug of regret at the idea of leaving Orcrist behind. 

The blade was the best he had ever wielded in his lifetime —even if it had been forged by elves— and Thorin had grown rather fond of it. It was as though the sword had been made specifically made for him. Sharp and perfectly balanced. After losing it in Mirkwood, he had felt as though he had lost an arm, he was so attached to it. 

That regret alone was almost enough to make him camp in the same place as last time, if only so he could go find the troll hoard and reclaim his weapon. 

If he had been on his own at the time, he may have done just that, stinking trolls be damned. 

But he wasn’t on his own, and it wasn’t just his safety that he had to worry about. 

He would not put his Company in such danger unless it was absolutely necessary, and as it was, a single sword was not worth the risk —much as he wished it was. 

No, they had to press on. 

A glance back at his sister-sons was enough to solidify his resolve on that. His love for them was stronger than his love for any blade.

He had lived this long without Orcrist by his side, and he was willing to go without it again if it meant the Company would remain safe for at least a while longer. The last time they had faced the trolls, they had barely escaped with their lives, and that was only thanks to Bilbo and Gandalf’s quick thinking. He didn’t want to try their luck again. 

Yet, as in so many other things, the world seemed to be against him in this. 

They had barely made it past the farmhouse —and Thorin had his eyes glued to the road ahead where it disappeared back into the trees— when a shout came from somewhere behind him. He turned quickly to see what all the commotion was, one hand already reaching for his sword, then paused when he spotted no sign of any danger.

It took him a couple moments to realise what everybody was looking at, and when he did, Thorin swung himself out of the saddle and was heading towards the tail end of the Company. 

He was the first one to reach Bilbo’s side, despite having been the farthest person away.

The hobbit was on the ground in the middle of the road, and his pony was off standing in the grass several feet away, stamping its hooves and looking restless.

“What happened?” Thorin asked quickly, crouching down and looking the hobbit head to toe with concern. “Are you hurt?”

“Poor Myrtle spooked and I fell. Not to worry, I think I just had the breath knocked out of me,” Bilbo said and pushed himself into a sitting position, only to wince at the movement.

He had hardly finished speaking before Thorin shouted for Oin, then turned back to Bilbo. “Stay there until we are sure that you are not injured.”

The hobbit pursed his lips at the command, but offered up no argument, and did as he was told. Thorin glanced up for a moment to see that Gandalf had come down from his own horse and was standing over them, leaning on his staff and looking down at Bilbo with a strange look in his eyes. Before he could even think to ask what the wizard was thinking, Oin showed up and Thorin turned his attention to the healer instead.

 

Half an hour later, Thorin stood on the edge of their camp, glowering at the trees on the opposite side of the meadow as though the forest were somehow to blame for their most recent misfortune. Behind him, he could hear the rest of the Company unloading the ponies and building up a pit so they could start a fire for Bombur to cook their supper on. 

Every sharp echo of laughter or clang of pots hitting against each other made Thorin wince and curse the noise they were making, though he knew the trolls would not emerge from their cave for the night until darkness fell, and they would at least be safe until then. After that, though…

Thorin had a feeling he wasn’t going to get even a minute of sleep until they were far from this place. How could he, when he was worried that every sound they made would call three hungry trolls upon them all?

He wanted nothing more than to keep traveling further up the road until the sun set behind them, but that was no longer an option.

After giving their hobbit a once over, Oin had decided that Bilbo should get some rest before they moved on, and Thorin couldn’t argue the matter lest people start asking questions about why he was so eager to keep moving. Explaining to them that he wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and the trolls living in the woods would only raise more issues —such as how he knew there were trolls there in the first place.

No, all he could do was make them set up camp in the farthest corner of the meadow and pray that they would make it through the night without incident. 

Gandalf disappeared soon after they made camp, and Thorin let himself be bothered by it for only a few moments before pushing it from his mind. The wizard and his coming and goings were none of his concern. All he needed to do was make sure that the Company kept close. 

So that was exactly what he did. 

Rather than have his sister-sons do it, Thorin assigned Nori to watch over the ponies, with Bofur quickly volunteering to help him. As for Fili and Kili, he had them help Bombur with supper. 

The two weren’t very happy with the arrangement, but Thorin ignored their complaints. If it kept them in camp where he could keep an eye on them, then he was happy. As long as he could see them, then they had no chance to go off and get into trouble. And avoiding trouble was his number one priority at the moment.

Hopefully, it would be enough.

 

Just as it was beginning to get dark, Kili brought him a bowl of stew and sat down on the ground beside the rock that Thorin had claimed the moment they made camp —his brother not far behind him. 

Thorin hadn’t even finished with three bites of his supper before he felt both of his sister-son’s grins fixed on him. He did his best to ignore it for as long as possible, but he eventually relented and looked at the two of them warily.

“Is there something the two of you need, or is your staring purely meant to make me uncomfortable?”

Fili’s grin grew and he gave a small shrug that was probably meant to come across as casual but was anything but.

“It’s nothing, really. We just noticed how quick you were to rush to Bilbo’s side when he fell from his pony,” Fili said, giving a slight nod in the direction of the hobbit in question.

Thorin avoided the urge to look over at Bilbo where he sat near the fire and fought to keep his face neutral. “I was concerned that Master Baggins might be hurt. So, if I was fast to reach him, I can hardly be blamed. Nobody has yet come to injury on this quest, and if it is at all in my power, I intend to keep it that way.” 

That was the truth, really, if not all of it. And it wasn’t as though his nosy sister-sons needed the whole truth anyways. He wasn’t about to tell them that their Company’s burglar was his One —not because he didn’t want anybody to know, but because he didn’t want to subject Bilbo to the consequences of that admission. Thorin could handle Fili and Kili’s persistent teasing, but the hobbit was still warming up to them all, and he didn’t want to do anything to hinder that process. 

At the very least, Bilbo seemed to be much more comfortable with the Company now than he had been before, which Thorin was grateful for. 

Still, he tried to keep his distance from Bilbo for the most part —the main reason behind it being that he was worried if he did get close to him, Thorin would immediately fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness for something that he technically hadn’t even done yet. And something that he would never do again. 

Bilbo wouldn’t understand any of that, though, so Thorin stayed away. As much as it pained him to do so. 

Of course, whatever he told them, neither Fili or Kili would be completely convinced of his answer, so the two just sniggered and went back to their stew.

Exasperated, Thorin turned his eyes up to the darkening sky, but he smiled slightly, unable to be upset by their mischief. After what happened on Ravenhill, he wasn’t sure he could truly be angry with them ever again. 

It was a sobering thought.

 

Late that night, after nearly everyone had gone to sleep, Thorin was still seated on his rock, staring diligently at the treeline. He didn’t so much as twitch when Dwalin came to stand beside him, and a few moments passed by before either of them spoke.

“You should get some sleep,” Dwalin said eventually, his voice a harsh contrast to the soft sounds of the night. “I’ll take up the watch.”

Thorin shook his head, letting his fingers tap restlessly against the hilt of his sheathed sword and wishing —not for the first time— that it was Orcrist at his side. “I will not rest until we have left this place far behind us.”

“Why?”  
“I do not like it here.” Was the only answer he gave. He had no way to explain why he didn’t like it without sounding mad, so he didn’t try.

Dwalin didn’t ask any more questions though, trusting his shield-brother’s judgement just as he always did, and sat down next him. “Then we’ll watch together.”

Glancing over at his best friend, it hit Thorin just how much he owed him. This ever loyal dwarf had been by his side for as long as he could remember, never leaving him to fight on his own and never wavering in his support of him.

Even amidst the gold-sickness, Dwalin’s faith in him had remained, and Thorin had returned that faith with nothing but mistrust and threats. 

Dwalin didn’t remember any of that, of course, but Thorin did and he would never let himself forget it. 

The Maker hadn’t just granted him with another chance to save the line of Durin. Thorin had been given more than a dozen second chances —one with each member of his Company— to make things right after how he had treated them all. 

With that in mind, Thorin turned to the dwarf beside him and opened his mouth to say...something. He wasn’t sure what he had planned to say, and he never got the chance to find out because just as he was about to speak, a crack echoed into the night and movement in the woods across the meadow caught his eye. 

In less than a second, Thorin was on his feet and drawing his sword. 

“What is it?” Dwalin asked, one of his axes already in hand.

Thorin didn’t have to see the huge lumbering shape in the darkness of the woods to know what made trees all shake and groan as it moved through them, and he didn’t need to see the trees to know that there were two more of those shapes close behind the first.

He didn’t know what had alerted the trolls to their presence, but it didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that they were heading straight towards their camp, and they only had a matter of seconds before the creatures were upon them.

“Wake the Company! Get them on their feet and make sure they have their weapons in hand! Now!” 

Dwalin asked for no explanation and just turned on his heel to carry out Thorin’s orders. 

Thorin listened as the quiet behind him quickly became a bout of commotion, but he didn’t take his eyes from the trees, and he watched as three familiar figures appeared from the shadows and didn’t so much as pause before they came barrelling across the meadow. 

He didn’t have to look to know that the Company had fallen into line behind him within moments, but there was no time for him to be proud. Dwalin had barely returned to his side when the first troll reached them. There was no time to do anything but let out a battlecry that the rest of the dwarves echoed before he threw himself into the fight.

 

Thorin and Dwalin stuck together, guarding each other’s back and fighting in tandem, just as they had always done. 

One would cause a distraction and the other would go in to slice at a troll’s shins and ankles, then they’d trade off, falling back and advancing, weaving and lunging, and spinning around each other as though performing some intricate, dangerous dance. A dance they’d been performing all their lives. 

Too soon, though, things took a turn for the worse.

After dodging away from a huge hand seeking to grab him, Thorin glanced around, making sure that nobody needed help. He was glad to see that everyone seemed to be holding their own. But something was wrong.

He took a quick count of the Company, and his heart stopped. 

He counted twelve dwarves, which was all well and good, but there was no sign of a hobbit anywhere in the fray. 

Where was Bilbo? Had he gotten the chance to flee from the fighting?

Thorin hoped so. 

He was so distracted that he didn’t hear Dwalin’s warning shout telling him to move.

One of the trolls backhanded him, sending him flying through the air and crashing to the ground just a foot shy of the fire. 

With the breath knocked out of him, Thorin struggled to sit up, searching the ground around him for the sword he had lost after being hit, but didn’t find it anywhere near him. 

Already, the troll was coming for him again, its great ugly face screwed up into an ugly snarl. It would be on him in moments.

Weaponless, Thorin scrabbled for anything to defend himself with, and his hand curled around the end of a broken branch that was sticking out of the fire. He didn’t have time to find anything better, and he surged to his feet just as the troll reached him, swinging the branch so its flaming end raked across the the monster’s face.

It let out a high pitched shriek, loud enough to make Thorin’s ears ring.

Still, he heard Fili well enough when he called out to him, and he dropped the branch in favor of catching the sword that his oldest heir tossed to him as he went hurtling by.

With sword in hand once again, Thorin turned on the troll that had since doubled over, clutching at its face and wailing deafeningly as it batted at the several dwarves swarming around it like stinging bugs. 

Bifur, Bombur, Balin, and Dwalin were all battering at its legs and torso, doing their best to trip it up and send it falling to the ground. 

Thorin didn’t hesitate to join them, ducking the sweep of a giant arm and going to slice his sword across the troll’s ribs. 

It howled, but the sound was drowned out by the roar of one of the other trolls, which was quickly followed by a horrified scream that sounded like it came from Dori.

All at once, the fighting stopped and everyone froze. 

Feeling sick, Thorin turned to see that the largest of the trolls stood several feet off, staring directly at him with fury in its hateful eyes, and trapped beneath its foot was Ori. 

Beside him, Dwalin growled a particularly nasty curse and surged forward, but he stopped in his tracks as the troll pressed down harder, eliciting a pained yelp from the young dwarf under its heel.

“Lay down your arms, or I’ll squash this one into jelly,” the troll snarled. 

The memory of the trolls threatening to tear Bilbo limb from limb flashed through Thorin’s mind, and with a small glance at poor Ori whose eyes were wide and wild with fear, he relented.

Letting his blade fall to the ground at his feet, Thorin gave the troll a fierce glare of his own and hoped that —wherever he was— a certain burglar would somehow manage to save them all once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for being patient with me! Freshman orientation was exhausting, and I didn't have any free time at all over the past few days to get any writing done. With classes having started, I'll do my best to write as often as possible. I'm hoping to have at least one more chapter posted before this coming weekend, so keep an eye out for that.


	8. Bilbo Baggins, Guardian of the Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo sneaks off to retrieve his sword, then finds himself racing to rescue his dwarves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, please forgive me for the long wait. I had every intention of updating last week, or at the very latest, the beginning of this week. Then life hit me like a freight train. Needless to say, I will no longer be making predictions about my updates. Please accept this (somewhat) longer chapter as thanks for all of your patience and wonderful comments <3

Creeping through the shadowy depths of the Trollshaws, Bilbo was beginning to wonder just how good of an idea his plan to find his sword truly was. He was tired, and hungry, and his shoulder still ached from falling off his pony earlier that evening. Granted, that had been a necessary sacrifice. If he hadn’t done something, the Company would have traveled straight on past the farmhouse and kept moving several miles beyond, and that would have been no good. There was no way he could have found his way to the troll hoard if they had continued on. 

Still, he was beginning to doubt his ability to find the hoard even with their camp being in the same spot. 

He had snuck out of camp somewhere around an hour ago, managing to slip away without gaining the notice of Thorin, who had been watching the woods like a hawk ever since they had stopped for the night. 

It wouldn’t be any good if Thorin caught him leaving because being caught would lead to a lot of questions that Bilbo didn't have an answer to. At least, no answer that wouldn’t make him sound completely mad. 

No, nobody could know what he was going out to do that night.

When he returned to camp later, he would figure out some way to explain his absence, and how he had just happened to come across three elven blades out in the woods. If he was lucky, maybe Gandalf would be back by then and he could help him form some sort of excuse. 

Much to Bilbo’s dismay, the wizard had left soon after they stopped to make camp, and no amount of begging could convince him to stay. When he had tried to warn him of the danger they might meet there, Gandalf had cut him off immediately.

“Don’t tell me anything! I fear that by knowing what will happen, I will somehow make things worse,” the wizard had said, refusing to hear another word of protest. Before he left, he had patted Bilbo on the shoulder and given him what was likely to be a reassuring smile. “If it makes you feel any better, I will keep an eye out for whatever danger it is that you fear.”

It didn’t make Bilbo feel better in the slightest.

Especially not now, when he was wandering through the woods, lost and alone.

Because he was indeed very lost.

At some point, he had gotten himself turned around, and now had no idea which way the troll hoard may be. Worse than that, he didn’t know which way to go to get back to camp. He could very well be stuck out there all night, never find his way back, and get left behind when the Company moved on in the morning.

The thought did nothing but make him feel panicked, and his pace quickened until he was nearly jogging, dodging around trees and hopping over roots as best he could. The longer he went on, though, the more he felt that he was just walking in giant circles. Still, he didn’t stop moving. Not until his foot caught against some uneven ground and he stumbled, falling to his knees on the forest floor.

He stayed there for a few moments, muttering some colorful curses under his breath and bemoaning his scuffed toes, but his complaints were cut short when he heard a strange sound. 

At first, he thought it had to have been a breeze rustling in the treetops —or, that was what he hoped it was— but then he heard it again, and the sound was unmistakable.

Somebody, or something, was singing.

“Bilbo, you are a damn fool,” he whispered to himself, even as fear cold and sharp began to wedge its way into his heart and suddenly his plan to find his sword seemed like a horrible idea.

He had ventured into the woods earlier under the impression that as long as he avoided the trolls, he would be fine. He hadn’t even considered that there might be other dangers to find hiding in the dark shadows of the trees. What other monsters could be lurking about, just waiting for him to wander into their grasp?

How could he be so stupid?

During the day, this forest was unfamiliar to him at best —he had only gone through a couple of times in his life, after all— and at night, it was ten times so.

The singing had grown slightly louder, and as a chill began to creep down his spine, Bilbo remembered some of the stories of men —tales told with lowered voices on dark nights in quiet taverns. The ones of fairies that lured unknowing victims into their forest homes just to eat them.

Back in the Shire, people would scoff at the idea of fairies. They would say that there was no such thing, especially not in their peaceful corner of the world, and that would be the end of that.

But, well, Bilbo wasn’t in the Shire anymore, was he? Who was to say what was and wasn’t possible? He himself had gone back in time, for Yavanna’s sake! Was the existence of fairies, or any other nasty creature, really so unlikely?

Time travel aside, he had seem a lot of extraordinary and terrible things in his lifetime, so he had no place in ignoring such things as purely fiction. Over the years, he had learned that most things had at least some truth to them. 

Yet even with the thoughts of fairies swirling about in his head, Bilbo found himself slowly relaxing. Because that melody —those _words_ — he had heard them before. So long ago that he had practically forgotten them until now.

It sounded like home.

His mother washing dishes in the kitchen, swaying along to the music falling from her lips. His father’s voice drifting in through the open window from where he worked out in the garden.

The memory was so vivid and hit him so suddenly that he began stumbling off through the trees before he had even consciously made the decision to do so.

He couldn’t bring himself to care that he was probably about to become the next meal of some malevolent creature. 

The voice —soft and lilting— belonged to neither Belladonna or Bungo, but it was familiar to him all the same. He had to know where it was coming from. 

Besides, the singing was slowly but surely driving off his fear, and anything that comforting couldn’t be too terrible. Could it?

Bilbo followed the voice for what felt like an eternity, but was probably closer to five minutes. He was nearly desperate, hurtling through the woods with as much speed as he dared, and almost falling flat more than a few times. Still, no matter how quickly he went, the voice remained a steady distance ahead of him.

Just as he thought he would never catch up, the singer seemed to come to a standstill, and he propelled himself forward with a last burst of energy in a final attempt to reach them.

He flew out of the undergrowth and straight into the middle of a small clearing, and as soon as he skidded to a stop, the woods suddenly went silent again. Nothing, not even a single cricket, made a sound.

There was only Bilbo, breathing heavily and whirling around in search of whoever’s voice he had been following, but there was no one. He was alone.

When the tears came, Bilbo did nothing to stop them from streaming down his cheeks and dripping onto his jacket front.

For a moment, he had been given a glimpse of his home. His true home. The one that had been full of his parents’ laughter and songs. The home that he hadn’t seen in over a century —and would never see again. And now that glimpse was gone, ripped away from him just as abruptly as the real thing had been taken from him all those years ago.

He stood there for a long time, wallowing in his grief, and he would have stayed there for a great deal longer if he hadn’t realized that the clearing he was in the middle of looked rather familiar.

Wiping at his face and blinking away the bleariness in his eyes, Bilbo glanced around with confusion, then froze as his gaze landed on the gaping mouth of a cave.

He stared, and stared some more, hardly able to believe what he was seeing.

The voice —and whoever it belonged to— had lead him straight to his destination.

He was standing not more than a dozen feet away from the troll hoard.

Staring into the gaping mouth of the cave, Bilbo swallowed nervously.

Of course, when he had first decided to head into the woods that night to retrieve their swords, he hadn’t taken into account just how dark it would be.

That was exactly the sort of thing he would forget.

Now here he was, ready to venture into a pitch black troll hoard with nothing to light his path. He almost thought about turning back, but shook his head immediately. He had gotten this far, and there was no point in turning back now.

They needed those swords, and this was his only chance to get them. The Company would be moving on at dawn the next morning, and even if he did find a way to postpone their departure again, it wouldn’t matter because the trolls would be back in their cave come sun up anyways.

No, he had to get the swords now.

He’d just have to find them by feel rather than sight. How difficult could it be?

With that thought, he straightened up and —feigning confidence that he didn’t have— he strode into the dark.

The vile stench of troll hit him like a wall the moment he stepped inside and Bilbo stopped, unable to stop himself from gagging. 

Digging around in his pocket for a moment, he found his handkerchief. If he held it over his face and breathed through his mouth it helped, but only just a bit.

He forced himself to take a couple of steps. Then a few more.

He could barely see his hand in front of him, let alone anything else in the cave, and Bilbo struggled to remember where the swords had been the first time around.

They’d been in some kind of barrel, he was pretty sure. Gandalf and Thorin had been looking at them. Now the only question was _where_ that barrel had been.

Unfortunately, his memory only went so far and he had no idea where to find it. Really, he had only peeked in through the entrance the last time, not wanting to enter the reeking cave. His short look hadn’t truly been enough to memorize the layout of it all. For all he knew, the swords could be anywhere.

He would just have to search until he found them.

It was easier said than done.

The floor of the cave was uneven and Bilbo found himself stumbling every couple of steps he took. For the first few minutes he managed to stay on his feet, but then something was in front of him and he tripped over it, tumbling to the ground.

Whatever it was, it fell over and a tinkling sound of metal on metal rang in the silence.

Curiously, Bilbo reached out, searching until his hand eventually landed on something cool and round. The image of a small chest full of gold flashed into his mind and he remembered Bofur, Nori, and Gloin taking the time to bury it. A “long term deposit” they had called it.

On their way back to the Shire after everything was said and done, he and Gandalf had stopped so Bilbo could dig up the chest and take it home with him.

Shaking his head, Bilbo shoved the coin into his pocket then slowly got to his feet again. Going more carefully this time, he continued walking, blindly holding his hands out in front of him so he wouldn’t run into anything.

The cave was dark enough that he could have been stuck in there for hours.

It reminded him of when he was a fauntling and he and his cousins would dare each other to venture into old Gerontius Took’s cellar. Down a small set of steps, the chilly-aired cellar would be pitch black when the door was closed. As one of the more adventurous children in the group, Bilbo had inevitably found himself in there whenever he went to visit his grandparents. Once, the cellar door had gotten jammed and he’d been stuck in there for what felt like hours until his cousins had finally found his mother and she came to rescue him.

That one experience had been the major cause of his longtime fear of the dark. It was a fear that he had eventually grown out of, of course, but even now he couldn’t deny the small bit of apprehension that he felt in his current situation.

Amazingly enough, his trip into the troll hoard didn’t actually take that long at all.

Only a couple steps away from where he had tripped over the chest of gold, his foot touched something on the ground. He slowly crouched down, reaching out until his fingers found what he was looking for. Standing straight again he held his breath as he ran his hand over the object. He didn’t need to see it to know that it was Sting.

The hilt of the blade was familiar in his hands, as though the last time he held it hadn’t been over decade ago.

Strapping Sting to his belt, he started forward again. It took only a few moments for his outstretched hands to find the side of a wooden barrel.

With Orcrist and Glamdring awkwardly clutched to his chest, Bilbo turned and made his way out of the cave, doing his best not to trip again.

Emerging into the fresh air again was a relief, and once he was far enough that he could no longer smell the stench of the cave, he stopped for a moment to just breathe. He leaned against a tree and closed his eyes with a sigh.

Somehow, he had managed to get in and out of the cave without any problems. He almost couldn’t believe it. Now if he could just get back to camp without something going wrong, he thought he might be setting some kind of record for himself.

“Bilbo?”

The squawk that the hobbit let out may have been the most undignified sound he’d ever made, but he was too startled to care.

Jerking away from the tree, his eyes flew open and Sting was halfway out of its sheath before he realised who it was that had spoken.

Bilbo stared at the grey-cloaked wizard for a few moments, then slowly let go of his sword, glaring.

“You nearly scared the life out of me,” he said accusingly. “Where have you been?”

The old man simply shrugged. “Looking ahead. I believe I have discovered the source of your worries.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but give an unamused snort. “Have you really?”

As glad as he was to not be alone in the creepy woods anymore, he wasn’t about to show it. When the wizard wandered off earlier that day, Bilbo had nearly gone into a panic. The only thing that made him feel at all better was the thought that Gandalf would surely be back to help if anything terrible happened —he always came back.

Still, he had spent most of the day on edge.

“It is a mountain troll, is it not?”

Bilbo thought the wizard sounded much calmer about the situation than he should have. “It’s three mountain trolls, actually. Three giant, smelly trolls that would be perfectly happy to eat the entire Company if so given the chance. Now, I suggest we get back before—”

He was cut off by a monstrous howl that that went echoing through the forest, sounding like a mix between a wounded cat and a furious orc, just ten times louder.

A cold flash of dread went through him, and Bilbo looked towards where the sound was coming from.

Towards the troll camp.

For a moment, he and Gandalf just stood there, until the next howl was let out and it jolted them from their stupors.

“Come on!” Thrusting Glamdring towards Gandalf, he turned on his heel and ran.

Streaking through the woods as fast as his feet could carry him, Bilbo couldn’t help but assume the worst.

The horrible racket the troll was putting up didn’t necessarily mean that the Company was involved, of course, he knew that. But he could feel it in his chest —that tightening grip of dread— and he knew in his heart that his dwarves were in trouble.

He wasn’t wrong.

As he and Gandalf drew near enough to the troll’s camp that they could see the burning firelight trees, their run turned to a tiptoe and they crept as near to the clearing as they dared.

Peeking out from between the branches of a thick bush, Bilbo found himself looking at a sickeningly familiar scene.

Tied up in sacks and tossed in a haphazard pile was half of the Company. The other half was above the fire, slowly going through the process of being cooked alive. And their ponies had all been herded into a makeshift corral and were stamping their hooves nervously.

One troll stood beside the fire, turning the spit and grumbling to himself.

The other two were off to the side, one of them sitting on the ground and wailing —which explained all the horrendous noise— as the other leaned over him, poking and prodding none too gently at his horribly swollen eye.

Turning back to look at Gandalf, Bilbo hissed, “ _we have to do something!_ ”

“Indeed,” the wizard mused, studying the scene before them with far less concern than he should have. “How did you manage to escape the situation last time? Assuming that this happened before, of course.”

Bilbo couldn’t help the annoyance that shot through him at the question. “Oh, _now_ , I can tell you about the future?”

Deeming not to respond, Gandalf just raised a single bushy brow and waited.

Bilbo glowered at him, but relented. “We distracted them long enough for the sun to rise and—”

“And turn the trolls to stone. Not the best plan, but I suppose it will have to do, given the circumstances.”

He wanted to mention to the wizard that the plan had, in fact, been in at least part his idea, but he went on before Bilbo even had the chance to open his mouth.

“You be the distraction, and I’ll see what I can do about setting our friends free,” Gandalf said.

“How am I supposed to distract them?” Bilbo sputtered, but it was too late. Gandalf was already gone. “Ooh, damn that confusticating wizard!”

As much as he hated to do it, Bilbo would have to be the distraction whether he wanted to or not. He’d done it before and he would do it again, lest the Company be eaten and their journey end right then and there.

Shifting Orcrist in his arms —the sword was really quite heavy, but he couldn’t very well leave it there— Bilbo began his search for a good climbing tree.

 

He wasn’t sure how much time it took him to finally get perched up in the high branches of an oak tree overhanging the camp, but by the time he was settled, the troll with the hurt eye was still wailing as loudly as before, so he figured it couldn’t have taken too long.

It seemed his timing was perfect because it was only a couple moments later that the troll standing by the fire turned to his brothers and shouted.

“Shuddup, Tom! Your blubbering’s giving me a headache!”

“You take a burning stick to the eye and see how you like it!” Tom retorted, trying to scramble to his feet while clutching at one side of his face.

“Keep talking like that and you’ll see how you like a stick in both eyes!” 

The third troll piped up then, pointing a log sized finger at the dwarves above the fire. “When’ll they be done, Bert? I’m starved.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t take so long if you lazy slugs ever bothered to help, _Bill_. Or maybe, I should just eat ‘em all myself and let you starve.”

Bill spat on the ground and shook his head. “You know I can’t cook.”

At the same time, Tom said, “I already called the one that stuck me! You can’t have it!”

And as though he feared Bert really would take his share of the meal, Tom lunged for pile of dwarves, his hands grasping at the burlap bags until he caught one and hauled it into the air and hung it over his gaping mouth.

It was Thorin.

An involuntary squeak found its way out of Bilbo’s throat, and he nearly leapt to his feet, only to remember he was in a tree and spent a moment scrabbling to keep his balance so he didn’t go plunging to the ground far below. Orcrist nearly slid from his lap.

He didn’t have time to come up with a plan, and he hadn’t spotted Gandalf anywhere since he disappeared. It was up to him to do something.

“TOM!” It took a moment for Bilbo to realise that the shout had come from him and he froze, sure that he had just given himself away.

The trolls didn’t see him, though, and Tom let out a shriek, dropping Thorin back onto the pile.

“What was that?!” Tom asked, spinning around to find whoever had said his name.

Bill looked as confused as his brother, but Bert turned a glare on the dwarves. “Oh, calm down, you lump. One of them’s messing with you.”

“I say we eat ‘em now to shut ‘em up,” Bill suggested, sliding a slimy tongue over his lips hungrily.

Cursing himself for his own stupidity, Bilbo cleared his throat and shouted again. “BILL!”

“Who’s that?”

“BERT!”

Whipping his head toward the dwarves again, Bert held up a knife threateningly. “Make another sound and I’ll cut out your tongues.”

_This is a terrible idea_ , Bilbo thought.

_“You will not touch them,”_ he said, and his voice boomed throughout the clearing, amplified louder than it should have been and sounding as though it came from every direction. It startled him so badly he nearly fell again, but somehow managed to keep his voice steady.

Gandalf must have done something. Used some kind of magic to manipulate his voice.

Bert spun around, brandishing his knife and ended up facing slightly away from where Bilbo was actually perched. “Show yourself now and maybe I’ll let you live,” he spat.

_“You better hope I let **you** live, after everything you three have done.”_

“And who’re you to think you could kill three trolls?” 

Bilbo had no idea what he was doing, and with his thoughts spinning so quickly he couldn’t process any of them, he grabbed the first one he could catch and held on. _“I am the guardian of trees. You have come into my home and ripped up the roots of this forest, and I do not take trespassers lightly. Begone, or you will feel my wrath.”_

And as though the very words had summoned it, a harsh wind picked up and blew through the woods, making the very trees tremble.

Bilbo made a mental note to thank Gandalf later.

Tom let out a frightened noise and stumbled into Bill, who growled and shoved him away, though he too looked unnerved. Only Bert looked unmoved by the performance, if anything, he looked even more angry than before.

He swung his knife threateningly at Tom and snapped, “stop it, you! You’ll squash our supper.”

Indeed, he had barely missed stepping on poor Bombur who had managed to roll out of the way. 

Looking down at all the dwarves, Bilbo bit his lip. The ones in the sacks were all struggling to get free, but were no nearer to doing so. He was more worried about those still tied to the spit above the fire, though. They had stopped turning for at least a couple of minutes now, and those few unfortunate enough to be stuck on the bottom of the turn were being roasted by the flames licking at them from below. 

So, he tried again.

_“I said begone!”_

The trees shook harder, but Bert stood firm.

The damn troll was nearly as stubborn as Lobelia.

The other two, at least, weren’t.

Nudging at his brother’s arm, Tom was looking frantically at the woods around them. “Can we fight a ghost?” he asked, his voice somewhat shrill.

Bilbo didn’t know where ‘ghost’ had come from, but he wasn’t about to correct them.

“Quiet! It’s only a trick,” Bert hissed. Then, louder, he said, “Come on, then, oh Guardian!”

Another glance at the dwarves, and he saw that they were getting restless. They had started squirming about on the ground like a bunch of lumpy looking worms, and the sight would have been rather comical if not for the danger they were currently in.  
They were beginning to grow restless as well, and Bilbo could hear them grumbling. 

The only dwarf not moving around was Thorin. He was laying still on the ground, staring directly at the old oak where Bilbo sat. How he had pinpointed his location, Bilbo had no idea. He was quite positive he was hidden from view by all the branches and leaves. Still, Thorin was looking. And there almost seemed to be a hint of a smile on his face, though surely that was just him imagining things.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Bilbo turned his attention back to the trolls. Then, like a miracle sent from the Valar, he spotted a flash of grey on the other side of the clearing, and a moment later, there was the first hint of sunrise on the horizon.

_“So be it,”_ he said.

Then Gandalf split the boulder and the golden sunlight of dawn spilled into the camp and the trolls were no more.


	9. Sneaking Suspicions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Company continues their travel, Thorin begins to notice that Bilbo is acting a little odd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can't believe it's been nearly a month since I last updated. Between classes and my job and homework, I have had absolutely no time to get any writing done. Sorry for the long wait, and thank you all for your patience!

Getting shoved into a stinking sack by a troll was an experience that Thorin had never wanted to go through —let alone go through it _twice._ Yet there he was, kicking the burlap off his feet among the rest of his Company for the second time. If it never happened again, it would be too soon. Still, he couldn’t truly complain. After all, they had all made it through the ordeal without any serious injuries and none of them had actually been eaten, thanks to Bilbo.

It was with that thought that he turned towards the large oak overhanging the troll camp, looking just in time to see the hobbit fall out of the lowest branch and stumble a few feet before catching his balance.

Thorin wasn’t at all surprised that Bilbo had saved them. Really, he had been expecting it. The hobbit always had been rather resourceful in getting them out of sticky situations one way or another, and he was quite used to it at this point.

He started the walk over to Bilbo, ducking between two of the troll statues, and reached him as he was bending to pick something up from the ground.

Thorin didn’t quite know what he planned to say —up until now, he hadn’t said much of anything to Bilbo over the last couple of weeks— but he had to say something. As soon as he opened his mouth to speak, though, he was distracted by a glint of silver. His eyes fell to the object in Bilbo’s hands, and he was speechless.

Bilbo turned towards him and jumped, apparently not having noticed his approach, then blew out a small huff of air. “You startled me.”

“Where did you get that?” Thorin asked, in place of an apology. There was no need to ask, of course. He knew exactly where the sword had come from. The real question was _how._

They both stared at Orcrist for a moment, then Bilbo started to stammer. He actually looked more nervous now than he had ever since leaving Bag End.

“Oh, well, you see, I—”

He could have gone on like that forever if Gandalf hadn’t strode over right then. Bilbo gave the wizard a look that almost seemed pleading, and for a split second Gandalf looked confused. Before Thorin could be sure, though, the old man’s face smoothed over and he shrugged.

“We found it in the trolls’ hoard not far from here.” 

Glancing between the two of them, Thorin asked, “and just what were you doing in their hoard?”

Again, Bilbo looked lost for words, and again, Gandalf came to his rescue.

“I just happened to come across the hoard while I was on my walk. I went back to camp earlier to fetch Bilbo because I thought it might be good for him to practice his burglaring.”

Bilbo nodded meekly and held Orcrist out to Thorin. “We thought you might like this, so I grabbed it.”

He took the sword after a moment of hesitation, the weight of it familiar in his hands. It was a relief to hold it once again, but something about the story seemed wrong.

He looked up again in time to see the grateful look that Bilbo shot at the wizard, which only made him more sure that there was something they weren’t telling him.

Still, he forced himself to nod. “Thank you, then. Both for the blade, and for saving us all. Our journey would have ended here, if not for you.”

He said the words to Bilbo in particular, and the hobbit smiled a bit, some of his nerves fading and being replaced with an almost surprised look. “Well, we couldn’t have that, could we? You’re quite welcome.”

The three of them stood in silence for a second or two, and Thorin studied them both, looking for some hint of what he was missing. He didn’t find it, though, and after another moment, Bilbo mumbled something about freeing the ponies.

Both the hobbit and Gandalf wandered off, then, and Thorin watched them go. When their backs were turned to him, he finally let his smile fall and his brows furrow.

“I did not see him.” He whispered to himself after a moment.

Ever since stopping in the meadow for the night, Thorin had been keeping watch, and he had never seen Gandalf come back. There was no way the wizard could have returned to fetch Bilbo as he claimed to have done. Thorin would have noticed. The hobbit he could understand being able to sneak away —he was small and capable of complete silence when he wanted to be. But Gandalf...the wizard was far too tall for him to not see. Thorin would have spotted him from a mile away.

Why they would lie about such a thing, Thorin had no idea, but he had every intention of finding out.

That would have to wait until later, though. Right now, he had to check on his sister-sons then get the Company back on the road.

The sooner they could leave the accursed place, the better.

 

They managed to pack up camp and were leaving the farmhouse behind them before it reached midday.

That was something Thorin could be grateful for, at least. 

He was able to get away with keeping the Company going at a quick pace without earning any complaints. It seemed everybody was eager to get away from the forest, and he was glad that nobody requested to rest for the day instead of move on. 

He just hoped that their early departure and possession of their ponies would give them enough of a head start to avoid the warg scouts that he knew had to be on their trail. 

 

It was early evening when the road started to veer out of the forest and run parallel to the treeline instead, and by sunset that night they had reached the edge of forest altogether. Before them stretched miles of rocky plains, and beyond that stood the Misty Mountains —looking bigger than ever as the Company grew closer and closer to them each day. 

Deciding they didn’t want to camp out in the open plains that night, they kept within the edges of the forest. As the rest of the Company made camp, Thorin found a place to sit and took out his sword and a whetstone. 

The mountains marked the halfway point on their journey to Erebor —in terms of distance, at least. He knew that they were nowhere near being halfway finished with the quest. Not by a long shot. There were still dozens of obstacles lying in wait on the road ahead of them, every single one of them potentially perilous.

On the first trip, Thorin hadn’t been nearly as anxious about it all as he was now. He supposed that came with actually knowing what was in store. The last time, he’d only had a vague clue of what dangers they might face in their travels. Now, he knew those dangers in painfully intimate detail, and they were about to plunge headfirst into it all. The trolls had only been the beginning. 

That wasn’t even mentioning the perils that might come their way due to any changes he might make this time around. Already, things had been turning out differently, and some of them weren’t even changes he had intended to make. What kind of dangers were ahead that he didn’t know about? And how would he protect his Company when he couldn’t see those dangers coming?

All of the worry those thoughts brought him were enough to make his head spin.

The familiar motions of sharpening the blade was a welcome distraction. Not that it needed to be sharpened. No, it was as perfectly lethal as ever —sharp enough to slice the skin on his thumb with the smallest touch. 

Still, he diligently continued on with the routine, watching the last light of day catch in the spotless metal and listening to the activity of his friends behind him —and their laughter. 

It was a sound that he had yet to grow tired of, and he supposed that had something to do with all those miserable weeks theys spent wandering lost and starving in the Mirkwood, and then trapped in the dungeons of the elves after that. Even after their escape from their captors, all of their moods had been rather dull. They had that one night in Laketown before they made the final trek of their journey to the mountain when they drank and ate and sang, but underneath all that cheer had been tense apprehension that none of them had managed to shake. And once Erebor had been retaken, they had all been so busy searching for the Arkenstone—

At the thought, Thorin’s hand slipped and he hissed, dropping the whetstone on the ground by his boots. He ignored it and looked at his hand, grimacing at the blood that was already welling in the cut across his palm. 

“Oh!”

Thorin jumped slightly and twisted around to see that Bilbo was standing behind him, holding a steaming bowl in each hand. Before he could say a word, the hobbit had set the stew down and grabbed Thorin’s wrist, pulling it closer so he could inspect his palm.

“I am fine,” Thorin said, attempting to reclaim his hand, only to find that Bilbo’s grip was surprisingly strong.

Bilbo snorted and shook his head. “Obviously not. You’re bleeding all over the place.”

He wasn’t wrong.

The blood from Thorin’s cut had already run down his hand and was seeping over Bilbo’s fingers. They both stared at it —or more, Bilbo stared at the blood and Thorin stared at Bilbo. 

He watched as the hobbit’s eyes widened and his face went pale, his lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, he looked almost fearful. Then just as soon as the look was there, it was gone again and his face smoothed over into mild concern.

He was almost startled when Bilbo looked up at him and met his gaze. He didn’t have a chance to say anything, though.

“I’ll see if I can get something from Oin.”

Then Bilbo let go of him and disappeared across the camp. He thought he heard him grumble something about clumsy dwarves before he got too far. 

It seemed like only a minute later that he was back, taking a seat beside Thorin on the log with a one of Oin’s jars of salve and a water flask in hand.

“Here, let me look.”

Thorin didn’t complain as Bilbo reclaimed his hand once again and started cleaning it off. He was more focused on the fact that they hadn’t been this close to each other since the very beginning of the (second) journey. And the only other time Bilbo had actually held his hand was after the battle, when he lay dying on the ice. 

As though he had suddenly been transported back to that instant, Thorin was fairly sure he wasn’t breathing. 

When Bilbo first slathered the salve onto his palm, he winced and the hobbit shot him an almost amused look.

Feeling his face get a bit warm, Thorin cleared his throat and looked away. “I could have done this myself.”

“Really? I’m not entirely sure you wouldn’t have just sat here and stared at it until you bled out.”

“It is not that bad,” Thorin said defensively.

The corner of Bilbo’s mouth quirked up slightly, but he didn’t respond. 

After a few moments, he finished applying the salve and Thorin tried to take his hand back, but Bilbo still didn’t let go. He dug around in his pocket for a moment, then pulled out a familiar square of white cloth and looked at it scrutinizingly for a moment before nodded his head slightly.

“That will have to do, I suppose.”

Then he wrapped the handkerchief around Thorin’s palm and tied it into a makeshift bandage. He did it so smoothly one would have thought he’d done it before.

After Bilbo finally released him, they sat there for a few moments and stared at each other.

“Thank you,” Thorin eventually managed to get out.

Bilbo coughed slightly and glanced away from him, shrugging. “The stew’s going to get cold.” 

With that, he reached over to grab take his bowl then moved to stand up.

Before he could really think it through, Thorin caught the hobbit’s jacket. “You can sit. With me. If you would like.”

Blinking, Bilbo slowly nodded after a moment and sat down again. “Alright.”

For several minutes they sat in silence, no a word passing between them as they ate their supper. Thorin took the time to watch the hobbit from the corner of his eye. 

He had spent much of the last journey to understand the strange creature that Gandalf had brought into their Company. Bilbo was small, and fussy, and completely ill-suited for life outside of his peaceful Shire. He had no idea how to defend himself --wielding a blade as though it was a butter knife rather than a weapon-- and up until that moment on the flaming cliff, Thorin had been sure that he was frail and fragile, and more of a burden than a help. And up to a certain point, he hadn’t been completely wrong in his thinking. 

Bilbo _had_ been a bit of burden in the beginning, with his constant complaining about everything. Yet, despite the rough start, Bilbo had proved to be just as brave as any of them --maybe even more so.

In any case, Thorin had been convinced that he had the hobbit completely figured out by the time they reached Erebor. Now, though, he wasn’t quite so sure.

By his reckoning, Bilbo should still be in that inbetween stage of cowardice and courage --willing to have a debate about the proper way to cook dwarves with a trio of mountain trolls, but still daunted at the idea of carrying a sword. Yet, sitting beside him now, the hobbit didn’t even seem the least bit shaken by the ordeal they’d gone through barely a day ago. Not only that, he had his tiny sword strapped to his belt like it belonged there. He didn’t seem at all uncomfortable with its presence. 

Though every thought in his mind was telling him to leave the matter be, Thorin couldn’t help his curiosity.

He wanted to know what had changed to help the hobbit find his courage so early.

“How are you fairing, Master Baggins?” 

Bilbo looked slightly startled at the question. “Pardon me?”

Thorin went on before he could change his mind. “Last night was the first real danger we have faced on this journey. Are you regretting your choice to join us?”

It took several moments for the hobbit to answer, but when he did, there was no hesitation in his voice.

“I appreciate your concern, Master Oakenshield, but there’s no need to worry about losing your burglar. I won’t be turning my back on this Company on account of a few nasty trolls. I made a promise to help you get your home back, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.” Bilbo shrugged at that, as though he hadn’t just said the complete opposite of what Thorin had been expecting, and he turned his gaze back towards the Misty Mountains. “Besides, if I let myself be cowed by what happened last night, how can I expect to face the worse dangers that still lie ahead?”

Thorin was nearly stunned speechless, until he caught the last part of what the hobbit had said. Looking at Bilbo dubiously, he asked, “And what kind of worse dangers are you expecting us to run into?”

Having taken another bite of stew when he finished talking, Bilbo choked on it now. After several moments of coughing into his sleeve, he shot Thorin a glance, his face a bit red and said nervously, “Well, er...the...the dragon, I suppose?”

He studied Bilbo for a moment or two, then hummed and looked away.

They sat together for a little while longer before Bilbo left him to go have a smoke with Gandalf and Balin.

Thorin waved off the invitation to join them and stayed where he was, staring down at the _BB_ embroidered onto the makeshift bandage on his hand. He was still puzzling over the hobbit’s words later that night when he laid out his bedroll to get some sleep. 

 

With no trees above them to provide shade from the sun, travel the next day was nothing short of hot and miserable. There was no denying that summer was finally upon them, and by that time the entire Company was likely wishing for a bit of that rain they had all been complaining about so much after they first left the Shire. 

As the morning wore on, it got hotter and hotter, and everybody began removing whatever extra layers they could stand to be without. 

Not even Gandalf was spared by the heat --going so far as to shed his outer robe before the sun had reached its highest peak in the sky. 

Thorin had to remove his own fur jacket and jerkin and now wore nothing over his scale armor. That was something he wouldn’t take off, though, no matter how hot it might be. By the time noon had come and gone, he was beginning to decide that he much prefered the scorching heat of a forge over that of the sun, and was grateful that he had been born into a race that lived their lives in the cool depths of their mountains.

The ponies, too, seemed rather put out by the uncomfortable temperatures and were slogging along a bit slower than usual.

Of course, as soon as the first cry of a warg echoed over the crossy plains, their pace increased considerably. 

Cursing, Thorin urged his mount to go faster until he was riding alongside Dwalin. “Get Bifur and Gloin and guard the back end of the group. Make sure Kili has his bow ready. Keep the hobbit close to the middle.”

“We going to make a stand?” Dwalin asked tersely, one axe already in hand. 

“Not yet. We only stop when we have to. We must get as close as we can.”

“Close to what?”

Thorin grimaced at the question, but didn’t answer it. Instead, he just jerked his head and Dwalin fell back, yelling in khuzdul to repeat Thorin’s orders to the rest of the Company. 

As soon as his best friend was gone, Gandalf immediately took his place, his horse towering over Thorin’s own pony and casting him into shade for the first time that day. There was no time for him to be relieved for it, though. Not with an orc scout party very nearly nipping at their heels.

“The Hidden Valley is--”

Thorin had no patience to listen to the wizard’s persuasions. “I am well aware of where we are and what lies ahead.”

“We should not try and face our pursuers alone. It might be wise to--”

Gritting his teeth, it took no small effort for Thorin to repress his snarl. “Do what you will, Tharkûn, I will not alter our current course.”

He could practically feel the look of surprise Gandalf gave him, but he refused to acknowledge it. And as the wizard galloped off ahead of them, he tried to tell himself that there was no other way to handle the situation. Their ponies couldn’t outrun the wargs for long, and without the brown wizard and his team of sled-pulling rabbits, there was no hope of diverting the pack’s attention long enough for them to escape. Still, it didn’t stop the bile from burning in the back of his throat. 

He let the disgust consume him for all of two seconds before focusing on their run once again. There were more important things to worry about at the moment.

A glance over his shoulder told him that Dwalin had followed his orders exactly. Bilbo was in the very of the middle of the group, and he was relieved to see that Fili and Kili had somehow been herded into the middle with him. Balin, Oin, and the Ri brothers had formed a circle around them, and Bofur and Bombur had ridden ahead to flank Thorin on either side.

Despite the circumstances, he couldn’t help but burst of pride he felt at the sight. 

Every single one of them had their weapons drawn and wore a look of grim determinations on their faces --even Bilbo had his little blade in hand.

Thorin had told them he would take them all over an army from the Iron Hills, and he had meant every word of it.

So he turned to face ahead again, and they ran.

They pushed their mounts to ride faster than they had traveled thus far on their journey, and the ponies seemed perfectly happy to comply. Especially when they started spotting flashes of wargs and their riders in their peripheral vision. 

The pack was trying to surround them.

Thorin knew that sooner or later they would succeed.

Unfortunately, it turned out to be sooner.

As the Company went to pass by a large outcrop of boulders, someone let out a cry of warning just before a warg leaped in front of them from above. It landed on the ground half a dozen yards ahead of them and made a terrible howling noise.

The ponies skidded to a stop, skidding into each other and whinnying with fear.

In moments, Bofur and Bombur had both placed themselves in front of Thorin and the warg leaped again, this time straight at them.

Just as Thorin lifted his shield and blade, an arrow screamed past his head and buried itself in the warg’s eye. At the same time, another arrow pierced its rider straight through the neck.

Both the orc and the warg slumped dead to the ground, and Thorin didn’t have time to be confused about where the second arrow had come from before a high, clear war horn echoed over the plains, accompanied by the sound of thundering hooves. 

Suddenly cresting the hill a little ways ahead of them were a couple dozen riders, with a grey-robed wizard and a figure in golden armor at their head.

The elves had come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to note that this chapter is completely unedited, so there may be some mistakes. If anybody happens to notice any, I would appreciate it if you pointed it out, and I'll do my best to fix it as soon as I can :D


	10. A Spark of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo runs into someone he never expected to see, then meets with the White Council.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I finished this a week later than I intended, but it's finally done. Sorry it's a bit shorter than the other chapters, but I figured that I had gotten to a good stopping point. Thank you all for being so patient and for all of your comments!

Rivendell was as beautiful as always. More beautiful, even, considering that the last time Bilbo had seen it it had been nearly empty due to all the elves sailing West. The Hidden Valley was more lively that he had seen it in several decades. It was safe and warm and full of music and Bilbo should have been comforted by it. Instead, he spent the next couple of weeks that the Company stayed there on edge, unnerved by the knowledge that it wouldn’t be long before the darkness swept across Middle Earth and all the life in this place would disappear once again. 

While he wasn’t with the dwarves, he was wandering the valley, trying to soak in every detail and commit it all to memory before he inevitably had to leave again. And it was on one such occasion —on what would be one of their final days with the elves— that he came across what was perhaps one of the strongest reminders of just how much change the future held in store.

Bilbo was on his way to one of his favorite places in Rivenell —a small, out of the way garden where he used to go to think or write— when he ran into somebody he never expected to see. 

Although, “ran into” probably weren’t quite the right words for it.

Halfway to his garden, Bilbo was following a path through a stand of pines when he heard a series of cracks and snaps coming from up above him.

Had he been in a clearer state of mind, he would have moved out of the way like any sensible person with the threat of something heavy falling down on their head. But Bilbo had spent the entire day worrying over the meeting he was supposed to go to that evening and was rather distracted. So, instead of move, he stopped walking and looked up just in time to see the mass of grey and green right before it crashed into him. 

If he had been his true age at the time, the impact very well could have killed him. As it was, Bilbo only felt like he was dead during the several moments that he lay on the ground, wheezing to catch the breath that had been knocked out of him. 

He was still lying there when an unfamiliar face moved into his line of sight —leaning over him and looking concerned. The person was no elf. He was too small and lacked the pointed ears. Human, then, and a child at that. 

“Hey, are you alright—” the boy stopped suddenly, his eyes growing wide, then… “You’re the halfling!”

Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his muddled thoughts, Bilbo pushed himself into a sitting position. “I’m a hobbit, actually.”

With his tangled dark hair and pale eyes, the boy looked almost...familiar. Though Bilbo hadn’t met many human children before, and he could say with near certainty that he’d never met this particular one. 

“You’re with the company of dwarves that have been staying here!”

“I am,” Bilbo said, nodding slightly. Climbing to his feet, he brushed himself off and bowed to the boy. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

The boy stood as well, and at his full height he was an inch or two taller than Bilbo. “My name is Estel. I’m sorry I fell on you, Mister Baggins.”

Bilbo hardly heard the apology, he was too caught up by the boy’s name. He knew that name, somehow. 

“Have we met?” He asked after a few moments of trying and failing to dig up any memory of the boy.

Estel shook his head. “No, I’ve never met a half— I mean a hobbit before. Or dwarves. I wanted to, but Lord Elrond said I wasn’t allowed to bother the guests.”

Bilbo furrowed his brows and chewed on his lip thoughtfully.

What was a child doing in Rivendell, anyway? A child who —apparently— knew Elrond. There had never been any children when Bilbo had been there, elvish or otherwise. 

As he thought, he studied the boy carefully, his eyes falling to the scrapes on his cheeks and hands, then he glanced up at the trees above them. “You aren’t hurt, are you? That was a rather long fall.”

Nearly looking offended at that, Estel folded his arms and stood up straighter. “It would take more than that to hurt me. I wouldn’t have fallen out of the tree at all if the branch I was on hadn’t broken.”

Despite his words, Bilbo could easily see that the boy was putting most of his weight on his right leg. Amused, he shook his head. It was nice to know that the childlike stubbornness was a trait shared across races. “Come on, then. There should be a steam nearby. Let’s get those scrapes cleaned up.”

His memory served him well, and it took less than a minute of walking before they came across the stream that Bilbo had mentioned. He made the boy sit down on a rock by the bank and dug around in his pocket for a handkerchief. He had gotten one from some of the elves about a week ago, as he had used his own handkerchief as a bandage for Thorin’s hand and had yet to get it back.

Estel didn’t complain too much as Bilbo cleaned his scrapes, and before long he was chattering on as children are wont to do.

Listening to him talk about the last time one of the elves had taken him hunting, Bilbo wasn’t quite sure of what tipped him off to the boy’s identity, but the realisation came so suddenly that he felt as though he’d been hit over the head with a frying pan.

“Aragorn,” he whispered with amazement. 

He didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it before, it was so obvious. It shouldn’t have taken him so long to figure it out. 

The boy stopped in the middle of a sentence and gave him a curious look. “What did you say?”

Bilbo just shook his head bemusedly, lost for words.

Aragorn. Strider. Thorongil. Longshanks. Estel was just the first of a long line of names this boy would go by in his lifetime to come. It was a name that meant ‘hope’ and it was quite fitting. 

A light from the shadows shall spring, indeed. 

That was just one line from the song he had written for his friend so long ago —or would write in the future to come, he supposed— and never before had he realised just how accurate it was.

This boy was just the spark of a flame that would someday save Middle Earth from the darkness, and he didn’t even know it. 

 

“Found him!” 

The familiar voice echoing through the trees interrupted Bilbo before he had the chance to respond and he winced slightly. Turning to look back over his shoulder, he saw

“It is time.”

That was all Gandalf had to say to make Bilbo’s heart sink. He knew this was a good thing, really, but he couldn’t help but be a bit apprehensive of the situation.

Still, he nodded once and got to his feet. Looking to Estel to see that the was looking up at Fili and Kili with barely restrained excitement, Bilbo smiled slightly. “It was nice to meet you, Estel.”

“You too, Mister Baggins,” the boy responded, not taking his eyes off of the dwarves even for a second. 

Bilbo glanced at Fili and Kili. “Maybe you two wouldn’t mind keeping my friend company for a while?”

Kili shot him a wide grin. “I think we could do that. Right, Fee?”

“Aye,” his older brother said, nodding in agreement. 

The last thing Bilbo saw before turning to follow Gandalf back through the trees was Estel’s eyes lighting up as he scrambled to his feet to introduce himself. 

 

The two walked together in silence for several minutes, steadily climbing their way higher up the valley, and it was clear that they were headed to a lone pavillion up on a ledge overlooking the rest of Rivendell. The closer they came, the more anxious Bilbo got, and the slower he found himself walking until he came to a complete stop in the middle of the path.

For a moment Gandalf kept walking, but then he seemed to realise that his companion was no longer beside him and he turned back to see where Bilbo had gone.

“Is something the matter, my boy?” 

“Exactly how much do they know about me?” Bilbo asked, suddenly daunted by the idea of having to tell more people of his plight.

“They are aware of your situation, so you will not have to explain it to them completely. All you will need to do is answer some questions and elaborate on a few things that I have already told them.” The wizard gave him a comforting smile and gestured to the top of the path. “You have naught but friends here, Bilbo. We all want to help you.”

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo nodded and forced himself to continue walking. Gandalf was right. There was nothing for him to worry about. 

 

That thought lasted all of half a minute. 

As soon as they set foot in the pavillion, Bilbo glanced around to take count of who was there. The first two, he expected. Lady Galadriel stood with her back to them, her long hair shining golden in the evening sun, staring out at the valley below. Elrond was sitting quietly at a table. 

The brown-clad figure beside him was a surprise, though not an unwelcome one. During their weeks in Rivendell, he had wondered what had become of the peculiar wizard, seeing as they hadn’t run into him on their way to the valley. 

It was the last person in the pavillion that had Bilbo stopping in his tracks and his stomach plummeting all the way down to his toes. 

Sitting at the opposite end of the table from Elrond and Radagast was an old man with long white hair, beard, and robes. Though he’d never met him in person before, it wasn’t hard for Bilbo to guess who this was. It was Saruman, the White Wizard. The same White Wizard who had turned to the darkness during the War of the Ring.

“Master Baggins, welcome.” 

Elrond’s greeting both stopped Radagast’s chattering and broke Bilbo from his stupor. Tearing his gaze away from Saruman, he did his best to smile and gave a half bow.

“Thank you. I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me.”

He hoped his voice didn’t shake too much when he spoke, but if it did, nobody mentioned it. 

The elf’s head dipped in acknowledgement and he gestured to a the seat beside him. “Please, sit. We have much to discuss.”

After a nod of encouragement from Gandalf, Bilbo approached the table and climbed into the chair. 

When he was settled, Elrond spoke again. “I suppose some introductions are in order—”

“Forgive my interruption, but I am in no need of introductions. I know who you all are,” Bilbo said.

“Perhaps you would not mind introducing yourself, then, for those of us here who have not met you yet.”

Nodding, Bilbo cleared his throat and glanced around. Galadriel had yet to move since their arrival, and he had no desire to look at Saruman, so after a few seconds his gaze fell to Radagast. “I am Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, and I’m here seeking your guidance and advice. Gandalf said you are already aware of my circumstances.”

“We are.” Elrond nodded. “And I think we should start with when you first realised you were in your past, to the best of your memory.”

So the next hour was spent with Bilbo recounting that morning nearly two months ago that he awoke to find himself in Bag End, then the events up until that day. He avoided saying much about the Company and their quest, and he said nothing about any future events —keeping in mind Gandalf’s warnings and the fact that there was a potential traitor among them. He didn’t know if Saruman was already in the service of the Dark Lord or not, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. 

“And you have no idea how any of this may have happened?” Elrond asked.

Bilbo shook his head. 

“Who else have you spoken of this to?”

“Nobody outside of this council,” he answered. 

“We decided it would be best to keep this quiet,” Gandalf piped up. “At least until we had the chance to discuss it here and hopefully come up with a solution. Or figure out how this could be possible.”

The pavillion fell silent for several long moments as everyone seemed to think over that last point. It came as a surprise when a new voice joined the conversation and Bilbo looked up to see that Galadriel had finally turned towards them. 

Her voice floated over them all like a summer breeze —soft, yet easy to hear all the same.

“Only a great power could send someone back in time in such a way. Power greater than any here possess.”

At that, Saruman spoke up for the first time, and Bilbo jumped at the boom of his voice. “My Lady, surely you are not suggesting that the Valar had anything to do with this? We do not know if he speaks the truth, and even if he does, what reason could a god have to send a simple halfling back in time?”

Galadriel said nothing in response, and simply stared the White Wizard down with cool blue eyes. 

Beside him, Bilbo noticed Gandalf’s hands clench, and his friend spoke up in his defense. “I have known Bilbo since his birth, and I knew his mother before that. I assure you, he speaks the truth, no matter how bizarre his story may seem.”

Under Saruman’s dark glare, Gandalf pursed his lips tightly, though there was an angry storm brewing in his eyes. Radagast was mumbling to himself under his breath and glancing back and forth between his fellow wizards, anxiously turning his ragged hat in his hands.

“Peace!” Elrond said, slicing through the thick tension that had suddenly grown between them all. “Arguing amongst ourselves will solve nothing. There is no reason for Master Baggins to lie over something such as this, so until we have reason to think otherwise, we should believe his story to be true. In that case, the Lady is right. There is only one power great enough to perform such an act.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing. Why would the Valar send somebody through time?” Radagast asked, looking to Bilbo as though staring at him hard enough would reveal some kind of answer. 

Elrond grimaced like he had just tasted something sour. “I do not know.”

Just like that, the council dissolved into discussion that went so fast Bilbo could hardly keep up with what was being said. Really, it was all beginning to make his head pound and his stomach turn nauseous. 

Bilbo was just thinking that he might actually be sick when through the din of loud voices came a soft caress at his mind that made him shiver, and his eyes were inexplicably drawn to Lady Galadriel just to find that she was already watching him.

_“I can sense the darkness brewing on the horizon. When the time comes, you will be at the center of it.”_

Hearing her voice in his thoughts was slightly unnerving, but Bilbo nodded all the same. There was no point in trying to deny it. Not when she already seemed to know.

For a split second, her eyes seemed to drift to the end of the table before settling back on him.

_“You fear him.”_

Another nod. He didn’t need to ask who she meant.

For a few moments, Galadriel said nothing else, and Bilbo almost thought she was finished speaking with him. Then…

_“You have been sent back for a reason, Bilbo Baggins. You are meant to be here.”_

_But I don’t know what to do,_ he thought somewhat desperately.

_“When the time comes, you will. Speak with Oakenshield. You need not carry this burden alone.”_

Bilbo blinked and shook his head. _I don’t understand. What—_

A hand on his shoulder dragged Bilbo from his thoughts and he glanced around to find that everyone had gone silent and were now staring at him.

“I’m sorry. I was distracted. What did you say?”

It was Elrond who answered him. “We will continue to look into your situation, but in the meantime it would be best for you to remain here in Rivendell. When we find any information that may be of use, we will speak of this again.”

That wasn’t going to happen. 

Bilbo knew full well that the Company would be setting off again soon, and he had every intention of going with them when they did. Still, he nodded to Elrond in agreement anyways then glanced to Gandalf. “Thank you for your help. I suppose I’ll leave you to the rest of your meeting then, unless you need me here for awhile longer.”

Even as he said it, Bilbo was already slipping out of his seat. 

Gandalf nodded and gave him a weary smile. It seemed that Bilbo hadn’t been the only one drained by the events of the past hour. “Yes, you can go. I will come find you later and we can talk some more.”

Glancing nervously in Saruman’s direction, Bilbo met his eyes for a short moment before promptly looking away again. He didn’t like the way the wizard was looking at him. 

After giving another quick word of thanks, he turned on his heel and hurried towards the path that would take him back down into the valley. Before he could even leave the pavillion, though, Galadriel’s voice appeared in his head once again.

_“Remember what I have told you, Bilbo. You are not alone.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't really have time to do much editing, so if you find any mistakes please don't hesitate to point it out and I'll do my best to get it fixed!


	11. A Hobbit's Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the night before the Company is set to depart from Rivendell, Thorin's brooding is interrupted by a certain hobbit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, guys, here it is! Chapter 11 is finally finished, although it is a little short. I hope you can all forgive me for taking two months to update. Things with school got so busy that I didn't have any time to write, but the semester is over now, and I'm hoping I'll be able to get at least a couple of chapters done before I have to go back.

After aimlessly wandering the halls of Rivendell for what felt like forever, Thorin eventually found himself sitting alone in a small courtyard, lit only by the swarm of twinkling fireflies hovering in the air and the light of the crescent moon overhead. He knew he should be with his company, but he needed to think. And he couldn’t do that surrounded by a dozen singing dwarves. 

They would be leaving the Hidden Valley bright and early to resume their long journey to the Lonely Mountain. Elrond had read the map for them not an hour before, and there was no reason for them to stay with their elvish hosts any longer; a fact that Thorin was glad for. 

He was sick and tired of elves. 

Granted, the ones they had spent the past couple of weeks with weren’t nearly as bad as Thranduil, but they were still unpleasant in their own way.

Just the memory of the elf woman he had run into the day before was enough to make him shudder. 

With long hair of pale gold and a silent grace about her, she had been just like every other elf he had ever had the displeasure of meeting, yet at the same time she wasn’t. She’d practically radiated an aura of otherness so strong it had raised the hairs on the back of his neck. They hadn’t said a single word to each other, but when her eyes met his it was like she could see straight through him and down to his very core. What she saw there, he had no way of knowing, but by the time he had managed to unstick his boots from the floor and hurry away she’d had a slight smile curling at the corner of her lips —like she knew something he didn’t.

Yes, he was glad to leave Rivendell behind them. 

And yet…

Thorin sighed and buried his face in his hands, rubbing at his burning eyes. He had hardly slept the past couple of days, and come tomorrow he knew his chances at getting any real rest would decrease exponentially. The road ahead of him held danger and peril at every turn, and the moment he and the Company set foot outside Rivendell there would be no safety for them. A slight reprieve at Beorn’s home was all he could hope for before they would be well and truly in the thick of it all. 

There were so many things he had to be careful of if he wanted to keep his Company alive throughout the next few months it made his head hurt. Goblins, wargs, spiders, elves, a dragon. There was no end to troubles they would face of their way to the mountain. Not to mention that the Pale Orc hadn’t even shown his gruesome face yet —and that was a reunion he was not looking forward to going through again.

He had hoped that knowing the dangers they would face would make him more confident in their journey, but he was finding that the knowledge only made him more stressed than ever.

How could he lead his family and friends on, knowing what horrors lay in wait ahead of them? He had known the risks since the beginning of the first quest, of course, but that was before everything had gone wrong. 

Before he and his sister-sons had all perished in battle on the doorstep of what should have been their home.

Before—

He wasn’t sure what alerted him to the fact that he was no longer alone, but within moments he was sitting up straight once again and looking around for whoever had come to interrupt his thoughts. 

After a moment, he found who he was looking for.

A familiar figure stood at the edge of the courtyard, seeming ready to bolt the moment their eyes met.

“Master Baggins. Do you need something?”

Bilbo froze in the middle of taking a step backwards and he seemed to struggle to say anything before he shook his head quickly. “No, no, I was just passing by. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

He took another step.

“No, wait.”

Thorin winced at the harsh tone and softened his voice a bit. “You can stay, if you would like. I would...appreciate the company.”

“Oh.” The hobbit halted his retreat and hesitated for a moment, seeming conflicted. “If you don’t mind, I suppose.”

“Sit with me.”

Bilbo nodded and slowly walked back into the courtyard. And he kept walking until he was standing a few feet away. Thorin gave him a tight smile and patted space on the bench beside him. 

Once Bilbo sat down, crossing his hairy feet one over the other and folding his fidgety hands in his lap, the two of them said nothing for a while. 

It wasn’t until the silence became too much for him to handle that Thorin said the first thing that came to mind. “Where did you go yesterday?”

“Pardon?”

“Fili and Kili said you went somewhere with Gandalf yesterday evening.”

“Oh. That.” Bilbo shrugged slightly, and Thorin glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “We went and spoke with Lord Elrond. I...had some questions I hope he might be able to answer.”

There was a time not too long ago that Thorin would have bristled at the thought of Bilbo going to have private meetings with elves, but he pushed the annoyance away and forced himself not to sound upset. “And did you get the answers you were looking for?”

“No. He was entirely unhelpful.” 

His voice was surprisingly bitter and Thorin looked at him with surprise.

“I am sorry,” he said after a moment. 

Bilbo shrugged again, and the bitter tone turned more chipper in an instant, though there was weariness on the hobbit’s face. “What are you doing out here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I could say the same of you,” Thorin pointed out. After a few moments without any response, he sighed and laced his fingers together tightly. “We are leaving in the morning.”

“We are.”

And finally, after several days of keeping his silence on the matter, Thorin finally voiced one of the thoughts that had been plaguing him since their arrival to the valley. “You should stay here.”

“What.”

“It is safe here, and comfortable. There are books and food and beds.” Thorin swallowed and looked away, fixing his gaze on the empty space before them. “Where we are headed is no place for a hobbit.”

Several seconds passed in silence, then…

“I beg your pardon, Mister Thorin Oakenshield, but I have no intention of staying here while you lot go off risking your lives,” Bilbo hissed.

“But—”

Bilbo kept going, sounding more upset with every word that came out. “I don’t need you coddling me like some helpless fauntling. I am perfectly aware of the dangers ahead, thank you very much.”

“I do not think you are,” the dwarf grumbled, more to himself than anything.

The hobbit’s eyes flashed and he snapped. “I know more about it than you might think.”

For some reason, the words caught his attention and Thorin paused for a moment. Furrowing his brows, he turned and looked at Bilbo curiously. 

He spoke after a moment, choosing his words carefully. “You know of the danger, and yet you will still come. Why?” 

There was no sign of the timid creature Thorin had first met all those months ago on the doorstep of Bag End when Bilbo responded. His hazel eyes were hard, and his voice sure. “Because I gave my word, and I intend to keep it.”

“The contract—”

“I’m not talking about the contract,” the hobbit cut him off quickly, shaking his head. “Your home was taken from you and I will help you take it back, even if it kills me.”

Thorin stared in disbelief.

Bilbo blinked then cringed slightly, like he hadn’t meant to say what he did. Wringing his hands, he started stuttering. “Er, well, that is to say…”

Gaze falling to the sword still strapped to the hobbit’s belt, Thorin stopped breathing.

Oh.

_Oh._

He was a gods-damned idiot. 

“Bilbo?”


	12. To See Mountains Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company is making their way through the Misty Mountains and run into some trouble with the stone giants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's the next chapter. I wanted to get it up sooner, but about two days after I published the last chapter I ended up getting the flu, and with the holidays going on I didn't have much time to write. But this chapter is slightly longer than the last and it didn't take two months to finish, so I'm going to count it as a success :)

Bilbo remembered that once, all those many years ago when he finally left Bag End and the Shire behind for good, he had told Gandalf that he wanted to see mountains again. He only made it as far as Rivendell before he reluctantly decided that he was far too old to go climbing up such steep paths. Now, trudging along the pass through the Misty Mountains —in the middle of a violent storm, soaked to the bone and caked with mud, and those very paths he had once looked at with such longing practically crumbling beneath his feet with every other step— he wondered how he could have ever actually _wanted_ to venture into such a dreadful place.

His only guess was that time made the memories taste sweeter. 

In any case, he suspected it would be a very, _very_ long while before time managed to sugar coat this particular experience. 

He had a feeling that the same would prove true for the rest of his companions as well, if the current state of them was anything to go by.

To put it bluntly, they looked like a rather miserable bunch.

All except for their leader.

If the Company was discouraged by the raging storm threatening to blow them off the mountain, Thorin was the opposite. Amidst the exhaustion that hung over them all like a cloud as tangible as the ones that rained down on them, he was the only one who seemed able to conjure any amount of energy. His voice rose above the thunder and wind, calling out encouragement and urging them to stay together, and never faltered.

When Balin slipped and fell, Thorin hauled his friend back to his feet then shouldered the older dwarf’s pack along with his own and kept moving. 

There was a look in his eyes that Bilbo wasn’t sure he had ever seen before; a cold determination that he thought might surpass anything the dwarf had shown throughout their original journey. 

It was one of two expressions Bilbo had seen Thorin wear since they had left Rivendell behind them just over a week ago. Whenever they were travelling, it was the determination, but in the rare moments that they stopped to rest —whenever he stopped to look at _Bilbo_ — it became entirely different. He couldn’t quite place it, but reminded him of the shock that one feels after realizing something monumental, mixed with something much more raw. 

It was the same look Thorin had in his eyes when he had said his name —not just “Master Baggins”, but his actual name— right before Dwalin had appeared, out of breath and urgent, relaying Gandalf’s message that they had to get out of Rivendell immediately.

Bilbo still hadn’t gotten the chance to ask Thorin about it, but for some reason he the feeling that it had something to do with why the dwarf had been so determined to keep him close ever since they had set foot in the mountains. Why, even now in the middle of the storm when there were arguably much more important things for their leader to be worrying about, he kept glancing back every few minutes to make sure Bilbo was still right behind him.

 

The mountains were fighting.

Boulders flew through the sky above them, hurled by the two massive stone giants that were in the middle of an all out brawl. The echoing booms of rock against rock had joined in with the sounds of thunder and howling wind to create a terrible symphony, nearly loud enough to burst eardrums.

The storm had only worsened in the past hours and once the stone giants made their appearance, the Company had completely given up on traveling any further and instead focused on clinging to the mountainside for dear life and praying they would survive.

Completely numb from head to toe, it took all Bilbo had to keep himself rooted to the wall of solid rock at his back as the mountain beneath them shook and quaked. The weather and constant movement had him feeling nauseous, and he probably would have been sick several times by now if he had anything in his stomach. As it was, none of them had gotten the chance to eat anything, being too preoccupied with trying not to go plummeting off the cliff a mere few feet away from where they huddled in a shallow alcove to the side of the path. 

Bilbo longed for more substantial shelter from the stinging rains and shards of rock that pelted him relentlessly. He may even be willing to venture into a cave should they find one, goblins or no goblins, but they couldn’t see any sign of one nearby. And there was no way they were sending anyone to scout up ahead. Not when the chances of them never returning was so great. 

So they stuck together, and though the storm had become too loud for Thorin be heard, he continued to keep an eye on the entire Company, his entire body tense as though he was ready to lunge for anyone he thought was about to go down. And all the while, he had a hand wrapped around Bilbo’s arm, his steely grip just tight enough that Bilbo thought he might find a bruise there later. 

He didn’t complain, though, not when that hand kept him on his feet as another tremor shook the mountain and rattled him to his bones. 

He nearly thanked the dwarf, until he saw something in the corner of his eye and the words died on his tongue.

One of the giants swung its huge fist so hard that when it made contact, its opponent’s head went flying —and crashed into a spot on the mountain far above them.

The shaking resumed with the impact, and rocks began tumbling down onto all their heads like the beginnings of an avalanche. 

The Company’s shouts could barely be heard over the din and they all drew each other nearer, desperately trying to avoid being hit by the falling debris. 

It was then that Thorin finally released Bilbo and lunged for his nephews, practically throwing himself on top of them to shield them both from the shower of rocks. 

Bilbo’s knees hit the ground and he threw his arms over his head, making no effort to try and rise again. After a few moments, he glanced around to see how the rest of the Company faired.

Dori, Nori, and Dwalin seemed to have all converged on Ori at once. Pushed up against the rock wall, the young dwarf looked like he might suffocate beneath the weight of them. Gloin and Balin each had a hold on one of Oin’s arms and were holding him up and the healer struggled to keep on his feet. Like Bilbo, Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur had all given up on standing and were all huddled together on the ground. 

For a single moment, it seemed that they would all be fine.

Then the body of the now headless giant slammed into the mountain.

The earth itself seemed to lurch at the impact, and Bilbo was thrown by the force of it, suddenly skidding towards the edge of the cliff. 

A high pitched shriek —which may or may not have come from him— was lost beneath a boom of thunder. He thought he heard someone shout his name, Bofur maybe, but there was too much mud and water in his eyes for him to see anything. 

By some kind of miracle, Bilbo stopped just before reaching the edge. He knew he needed to get up, to move to a safer spot, but the fall had knocked the wind out of him so he just laid there, disoriented and gasping for breath. 

Then he was being hauled off the ground again and as soon as he was on his feet he clutched onto the fur coat of whoever had come to his rescue. Looking up, Bilbo came nose to nose with the dwarf.

Familiar blue eyes stared at him and he stared back, frozen.

Thorin was speaking, he was sure of it, but he couldn’t hear a word of what he was saying. 

“What?!” Bilbo yelled, but he couldn’t even hear his own voice over storm. 

Whether or not Thorin would try to repeat himself, Bilbo never got to find out. Because between one second and the next, the ground beneath his feet was suddenly gone and he was falling. Stumbling, Thorin held onto him, and for an impossibly long moment Bilbo was dangling in open air. Then the edge crumbled more and the earth under the dwarf’s boots gave way.

Bilbo only saw a brief flash of the Company’s horrified faces before he and Thorin were both sent tumbling down the cliff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everybody who has commented since I posted chapter 11. I normally make it a point to reply to every comment, but with the spring semester starting up I have a feeling I'm not going to have any time to respond. Please just know that I see every single comment you guys send me and I cherish them all <3
> 
> I'd like to warn you that it may take a while for chapter 13 to get done because a lot is going to happen and unless I decide to change my outline, it's supposed to be considerably longer than the last few updates have been. That being said, please be patient and don't worry —I am not giving up on this story.


	13. Deep Dark Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being separated from the rest of the Company, Thorin and Bilbo must find a different path out of the Misty Mountains. Thorin plans to take advantage of the occasion and use it as an opportunity to finally talk to the hobbit, but it proves to be a more difficult endeavor than he hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like every chapter I write is going to start off with an apology for taking so long to update. Still, I am truly sorry. Unfortunately, school and mental health issues got in the way and I haven't had the motivation to write these past few months. The semester is finally over, though, and I'm feeling better. Yesterday I ended up reading through all of the comments you've made on this story and it gave me enough motivation to finally write the rest of this chapter. Thank you all so much for your love and support for my writing, it helps me more than you know <3

Thorin woke to a pounding head and something hard jabbing him in the back. His entire body ached, like he had lost a fight with Dwalin in the training ring ten times over, and he wanted nothing more than to fall back unconscious for several more hours. Unfortunately, as the moments went by, he became more and more aware of his discomfort. 

Groaning, Thorin forced his eyes to open and he blinked a few times, trying to clear the blur. It took him a moment to realise that there was nothing wrong with his eyes and it was just dark. Still, there was enough light for him to see a shape move in the corner of his vision.

Thorin instinctually reached for his sword, just to find that it was no longer on his belt. So he struggled to sit up, readying himself to fight off whatever creature was stumbling towards him.

“Thorin?”

He paused, and squinted at the figure, then relaxed. “Bilbo,” he sighed, relieved.

“Yes, it’s me.” The hobbit staggered, then dropped to his knees at Thorin’s side, looking down at him worriedly. “Are you alright?” 

For a moment, he was taken back to Ravenhill. The two of them had been in a similar position then— freezing and covered in grime. This time though, thankfully, it seemed that neither of them were fatally injured

Pushing the thought out of his mind, he ignored the question and looked around again. They were in a ravine of some sort, stone walls rising up on either side of them and dark, cloudy skies far, far above. 

“We fell?” he asked, a vague memory of stone giants and a storm stirring in the back of his mind. His voice came out scratchy and rough and he winced.

Bilbo nodded, not even seeming to really notice when he reached out and brushed some hair from Thorin’s face. “We did, though I haven’t the faintest idea of how we survived it.”

“Dwarves have thick skulls.” 

Letting out a short laugh, Bilbo shot him a quick grin. “Believe me, I’m well aware of that.”

Thorin huffed, but the response reminded him of the question he had yet to ask and he sombered. They hadn’t had a moment alone together since Rivendell, and he didn’t think time travel was a topic that should be brought up around the rest of the Company. They were alone now, though, unsavory as the situation may be.

With that thought, he pushed himself to start sitting up. “Bilbo—”

The hobbit’s smile fell and he pushed him back down, his hand on Thorin’s shoulder surprisingly firm. “Maybe you should stay still for a while longer. It looks like you took a rather nasty knock to the head. What if you have a concussion?”

Thorin brushed his fingertips over his temple, feeling the sticky, half-dried blood caked there. That explained the headache. 

“Relax, Bilbo. I am fine,” he said, brushing the hobbit’s hand away gently.

His spine popped several times as he sat up and he let out a low groan, ignoring the warning look that Bilbo gave him. Once Thorin was on his feet, Bilbo moved away from him, assumingly to find whatever belongings he had lost during their fall.

Thorin didn’t miss the way the hobbit limped, and he immediately stopped taking stock of his own injuries to ask about his companion’s. “Are you hurt?” 

The hobbit waved the question off with hardly a glance and bent down to pick up his pack, wincing when he stood straight again. Thorin almost thought he wouldn’t answer at all, but then Bilbo turned to him again.

“I just fell off a gods damned cliff and somehow managed to survive with nothing more than some bruises and a sore ankle. I’m not about to push my luck by complaining,” he said.

Shaking his head from a mix of amazement and disbelief, Thorin wondered how he could have gone so long without realising how out of the ordinary Bilbo’s behavior had been. From the very beginning, Bilbo had acted too willing and too confident when it came to the quest, and no amount of meddling from any wizard could have ever been enough to turn a gentle-hobbit into an adventurer before he even set foot out his door. Thorin had just been too blind to see it. 

“Bilbo, there is something we should—”

But the hobbit wasn’t listening. Instead, he was staring at something on the ground by his feet and he had gone very, very still.

Then all at once he bent down to scoop whatever it was off the ground and tossed it towards Thorin, hissing. “ _We need to move._ ”

Catching Orcrist clumsily in his arms, he glanced down to see that the blade had come slightly unsheathed from its scabbard. 

It was glowing. 

In the short moment it took Thorin to put the blade back on his belt, Bilbo had already started walking at a brisk pace, despite what he had said about his ankle.

Cursing under his breath, Thorin hurried to catch up and silently vowed to kill every goblin in the Misty Mountains if that was what it would take to get even a few quiet moments to actually talk to his hobbit. 

 

Though they didn't run into any trouble over the next hour, that unnerving glow of their swords never dimmed. Thorin had tried multiple times to start a conversation with Bilbo, but the hobbit seemed too preoccupied with his own thoughts to talk about. For the most part he was quiet, but every once in a while he would start grumbling to himself, too quietly for Thorin to understand anything he was saying. So they walked in a tense almost-silence, and the sky far above them slowly grew lighter as dawn approached.

Just as Thorin was starting to wonder how far the ravine would take them —and if they might be able to follow it all the way out of the Misty Mountains— they turned a sharp corner and came to a stop at the sight of a dark cave-mouth gaping at them from within the cliff face. 

Up until now, they hadn’t come across any diverging paths. With two walls of stone on either side of them, both too steep to even consider climbing, there had been nowhere to go but forward. 

Thorin took one look at the cave and immediately decided this was one mountain he didn’t want to enter. He had every intention of passing the cave by and continuing to follow the ravine, wherever it may take them, but he only made it about ten steps before he realised that there was no longer a hobbit at his side.

Stopping, Thorin turned around to see his companion staring into the dark, gripping the hilt of his small sword so tightly that his knuckles were white and a look on his face like he had just taken a bite out of a rotten apple. 

“Bilbo?” After a moment of getting no response, Thorin sighed and went back. “What is it?” 

“I have to go in there,” he said glumbly.

“What? _Why?_ ” Thorin asked incredulously.

“I just have to.”

“Bilbo, there are _goblins_ in these mountains. Going in there would be like poking at a hornets’ nest. Not to mention that there is no way of knowing if there is a way out once we go in there.”

“There’s a way out.”

“But—”

Bilbo rounded on him, a determined glint in his eyes. “If we go in there, could you lead us through the tunnels? Don’t argue. It’s a yes or no question.”

“Of course I could, I am a dwarf. But I will not—”

“Master Oakenshield!” 

Thorin shut up. 

As soon as his voice stopped echoing through the ravine, Bilbo spoke again, though more quietly now. “Do you mean to tell me that a hobbit will go underground when a dwarf dare not?”

Spluttering, Thorin tried and failed to come up with a rebuttal, only managing to give the impression of a gaping fish. Bilbo, damn him, had the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

For several moments, the two of them just stared at each other. Then Bilbo turned on his heel and strode toward the cave. “Come on, then. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll make it out by supper.”

Grinding his teeth angrily, Thorin huffed and stomped after the hobbit.

 

Underground, there was no way of knowing exactly what time it was, but Thorin didn’t need a clock or the sun to know that they were not, in fact, lucky enough to make it out by supper. They walked for hours, making their way through what felt like miles of tunnels that snaked through the belly of the mountain.

As he said he could, Thorin was able to lead them on their way easily enough, but he hated every second of it. Normally, he would take comfort in being surrounded by stone on all sides. He had spent his entire life living under mountains, after all. Navigating them was second-nature to him. But there was nothing comforting about this place. The stone here did not welcome him like that of Ered Luin or Erebor. Rather, it felt almost evil, as though it had been tainted by the shadows and the dark things that lived within them. It felt sick. Almost like Mirkwood.

That was all the more reason for them to move quickly.

Exhausted as they were, not once did they stop to rest, both too anxious to leave the darkness behind them.

Thorin, at least, could see well enough to guide them on their way, but he knew that Bilbo had been traveling completely blind ever since they entered the cave. The hobbit had stumbled over uneven ground and his own two feet dozens of times before Thorin suggested he hold onto his coat. 

With Bilbo holding onto his sleeve, the going was a bit easier. Thorin was able to guide him around potential obstacles, so they could move faster, but it still wasn’t fast enough for his tastes.

The slower pace mixed with the dead quiet of the tunnels made hours feel like an eternity. Neither of them dared speak, even if their swords had gone dark a long time ago. There were fouler things than goblins lurking in the dark, and they didn’t want to risk alerting those things of their presence. 

So they kept their silence and Thorin was left to agonize over his thoughts.

Thoughts that he was abruptly dragged out of when his boot scuffed against the ground and rather than rocks crunching under his foot he heard the unmistakable _‘clink’_ of metal on stone. 

He stopped walking, and a moment later Bilbo ran into from behind. 

“What is it?” the hobbit whispered.

Thorin ignored the question and stooped down, where he saw a glint of gold in the dark. 

Without thinking, he reached out and picked up the small object.

It was a Ring, smooth and cold in the palm of his hand.

Under closer inspection, he found that it bore no markings on its surface. He briefly had the thought that something of dwarven make —intricately shaped and detailed— would be much nicer. 

Still, there was something enticing about the simplicity of it. 

He would keep it; just another precious trinket to add to the wealth of Erebor. 

And for a moment he was no longer looking down at a little ring, but staring out across a sea of treasure, the weight of his grandfather’s crown sitting upon his head. He basked in the golden light that surrounded him and revelled in what was easily the most beautiful sight he had ever laid eyes on—

He blinked and the vision was gone, along with the Ring that he had been holding. Confused, he looked up in time to see a glint of gold as Bilbo shoved it into his pocket. He scowled and nearly told the hobbit to give it back, but stopped at the last second.

There was fear in Bilbo’s eyes, and the sight brought up another memory. One where he wore a crown upon his head and held a thieving hobbit in his hands. 

Gasping, Thorin shook his head, trying to rid himself of the horrid memory. He felt sick, suddenly. Was he really so weak that just one look at a tiny trinket could send him back to madness? Maybe it was a good thing Bilbo had taken it from him. Maybe that was why he had taken it. If the hobbit had also been sent back to fix things, then surely he remembered everything —including all that took place in Erebor.

Not for the first time, he had the urge to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness for all the terrible things he had done under the influence of dragon sickness. 

“Bilbo—”

He wasn’t able to get another word out before a hand was unceremoniously slapped over his mouth, effectively muffling him. With his free hand, Bilbo pointed at Orcrist. It took all the strength Thorin had not to scream in frustration at the light that radiated from the blade. 

Slowly, Bilbo stepped back and gestured in the direction they had been walking. Not far ahead, there was a bend in the tunnel, blocking their view of whatever struggle was taking place no more than twenty feet away from them.

The sickening sound of rock against flesh made a dull echo over and over again, backed by some horrid creature that was hissing and retching and shrieking all the while. A few moments later, there was a thud that sounded like a body hitting the ground, and the creature let out a victorious cackle. Apparently, whatever it had been bludgeoning had finally either passed out or died.

Neither of them made a sound while they listened to the creature begin dragging its opponent away, presumably to eat it. It wasn’t until its raspy breathing faded away that they moved again. 

Disgusted, Thorin glanced over at Bilbo, who at some point had drawn Sting.

In the soft glow of his sword, the hobbit’s face looked pale and grim.

“Let’s go,” Bilbo said quietly, and he started walking again. 

Putting a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder, Thorin stopped him. “Maybe it would be better to wait while. I do not want to risk that thing seeing us and running off to alert the rest of the mountain that we are here.”

Bilbo just shook his head and kept walking.

With a sigh, Thorin drew his sword and followed him. 

 

It wasn’t long before Thorin began to feel a change in the stone around them. It was not so smothering as it had been before. He was sure that they were getting close to an exit. 

He said as much to Bilbo, but his relief was snuffed out like a candle flame seconds later when they once again heard that _thing_ up ahead as it began singing. Thorin listened to a few of the words of its song then did his best to shut it out, deciding that he would rather not know. 

“We passed another branch of the tunnel not five minutes ago. If we turn back, we could take that path instead,” Thorin suggested.

“Nonsense,” Bilbo said, turning to him. “You said it yourself, the exit is that way. There’s no point in turning around now.” 

Thorin scowled. “I did not say it is that way. I said it is nearby.” 

“Fine. _I_ say it’s that way.” 

Exasperated, Thorin looked up at the ceiling above them. Maybe they had finally reached a part of the mountain that Bilbo recognized. After all, the during the first quest, the hobbit had been separated from the rest of the Company and ended up escaping through these very tunnels. And hadn't he also mentioned a run in with some horrible creature that lead him out of the mountain? Thorin wouldn’t be at all surprised if that thing singing in the cavern up ahead was the creature Bilbo had told them about. But that didn’t mean they should go and meet it, if it could be avoided. Thorin was sure he could find another way out that didn’t involve word games with a creature in the dark.

“Bilbo—”

“ _Shh._ Do you hear that?”

Once again, Thorin ended up with a hand covering his mouth and he glared. 

_How many times is he going to interrupt me before I finally have the chance to speak?_ He wondered angrily.

There was no time for him to voice his complaint, though. He had barely jerked away from Bilbo when something pale and gangly dropped down on him from above and knocked him to the ground.

Rather than asking what he could hear, a more appropriate question would have been what he _couldn’t_ hear. 

The singing had stopped.


	14. I See Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin race to find the rest of the Company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Alright, here's the next chapter, finally. As always, I apologize for the long wait. I wrote the majority of this chapter within the past 24 hours and it hasn't gone through any editing whatsoever. But it's late and I want to get this posted before I go to bed. If you find any grammar/spelling issues, please don't hesitate to tell me. I would be forever grateful.  
> Also, thank you to everyone who has left comments. I haven't had the chance to respond, but your words mean the world to me <3

Bilbo had been too preoccupied in his argument with Thorin to notice that the singing in the cavern just ahead had stopped. It wasn’t until an angry creature dropped from the ceiling above, hissing and screaming, that he realised. And by then it was too late. 

Thorin was knocked to the ground by the attack and Bilbo stumbled back with a yelp. It took him a moment to regain his balance, by which time his companion was wrestling a sickeningly familiar creature that had haunted his dreams for many years after his first journey had ended —then again during the War of the Ring. 

Shaking himself, Bilbo forced his thoughts back to the present then raised his sword and lunged forward to help. 

Gollum’s long fingers were straining to wrap around Thorin’s throat as the dwarf cursed loudly in khuzdul and held him off. 

The moment Sting’s sharp point touched Gollum’s neck, the foul thing let out a furious hiss and turned to leap on Bilbo, but stopped abruptly when the blade pointed steadily to the place just above his heart.

“Get off of him.”

Gollum glared at him hatefully for a moment, but when he was poked lightly with the sword he clambered off the dwarf and backed away. 

Thorin angrily rose to his feet and moved to Bilbo’s side, heaving his own sword up and pointing it at Gollum threateningly.

“Akhamân,” he grumbled.

“Nê aglub uduhu,” Bilbo responded without a second thought. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Thorin look at him in surprise and he silently cursed himself for the blunder. He was sure he’d have to explain away the mistake later. Maybe he could say that one of the other dwarves had taught him some simple phrases. Fili or Kili would probably make the best excuse, they were young and brash and it might be believable that they had broken their people’s traditions of secrecy. It was a problem to deal with some other time, though. At the moment, there were more important things to worry about. 

He turned his attention back to Gollum, who was in the middle of talking to himself.

“They’ve gots elvish blades, but they’re not elfs. No, the hairy ones a nasty dwarvses. Its meats is tough and hard to chew. But not the other. It’s not elfs or dwarvses. What is it, precious? Is it soft? Is it _juicy?_ ”

Thorin growled and pointed Orcrist threateningly. “Watch your tongue or you will lose it.” 

“What I am is none of your concern. Given the chance you would eat me nonetheless,” Bilbo said distastefully while shooting a small glance at Thorin. 

“Let’s just kill the thing and get out of here.” 

When the dwarf took a step forward, Bilbo threw out a hand to stop him. “We are _not_ going to kill him,” he hissed.

“We have wasted enough time as it is. We need to find the others—”

“Are they lost, precious?” 

“ _Quiet, you little—_ ”

“Yes actually,” Bilbo interrupted. “We are lost, and we’d like to get unlost as quickly as possible.”

“Ooh! We knows! We knows safe paths! Safe paths through the dark!” Gollum blurted out, sounding much more cheerful than he had moments before. Then he scowled darkly and spat, “ _shut up._ ”

“Fantastic. Is there anyway I could convince you to show us the path?”

“ _This is no time for riddles, Bilbo,_ ” Thorin hissed.

Bilbo furrowed his brows and glanced over at him. “Who said anything about riddles?”

The dwarf looked ready to start tearing his beard out, but he didn’t get the chance to respond. He was cut off by a gurgling sound let out by Gollum.

“Riddles, precious? We loves riddles!” he rasped, his grotesque blue orbs widening in delight as he turned them on Bilbo. “Does it like games? Does it, does it? Does it like to play?”

Thorin groaned. “ _No—_ ” 

“Not you!” Gollum spat.

Seizing his chance, Bilbo spoke up quickly. “I’ll tell you what. You and I will have a game of riddles, just the two of us. And when we’re done, you will show us the way out.”

“Yes, yes! But only if it wins. If it loses, we eats it whole.”

“Fair enough.” Thorin made a sound of protest and Bilbo shot him a look. “ _Shush._ ”

Grumbling indignantly, the dwarf made no further attempt to argue, but continued to watch Gollum like he was ready to jump forward and thrust his sword through the creature’s chest at any given moment.

Bilbo shook his head then looked back to Gollum and resheathed Sting. “Would you prefer to go first, or shall I?”

 

The game went by much faster than Bilbo remembered, but then, he did have all of the answers to Gollum’s riddles memorised. With each riddle that passed, his opponent grew increasingly frustrated, and Bilbo wasn’t too hopeful that he would actually lead them out of the mountain. Still, this was better than outright killing him. As much as Bilbo disliked the creature, there was no way of knowing how Gollum’s premature death might affect future events. It was too big of a risk —and not one he was willing to take. 

So they played. 

“All things it devours; birds, beasts, trees, flowers. Gnaws iron, bites steel, grinds hard stones to meel.” Gollum had perched himself on top of a rock so that they were at eye level to each other.

Bilbo knew the answer, of course. This was the riddle that he had gotten stuck on all those many years ago. The next one would be the last, though, so he hesitated a second or two before responding. “The answer is time.”

Letting out an agonized shriek, Gollum flung himself to the ground and began banging his hands on the stone. He continued to throw his fit for several moments before he calmed again and regained at least partial control of himself. Sitting back on his haunches, he looked at Bilbo with glittering eyes. 

“One more, then we tastes its juicy flesh.”

Up until that point, Thorin had thankfully stayed quiet, but he growled at Gollum for the comment.

Bilbo ignored him and kept his focus on Gollum. “Very well. Listen close because I’m only saying it once.”

“ _Give us the riddle._ ” 

“Small in size I may be, but not in power. If a man uses me, his mind I devour. I will give him greed. His love I will take. To destroy me he’ll bleed, but I will not break.” Bilbo finished reciting the riddle, then gave a curt nod, and stood up straight.

Gollum’s face scrunched up, making him look even more like a shriveled and rotten squash than before. When he started muttering to himself, Bilbo took the chance to glance at Thorin.

“Look across the cavern. Do you see a tunnel anywhere?” he whispered.

Thorin huffed irritably then did as he asked, peering into the deeper darkness that Bilbo’s eyes couldn’t pierce. Then he nodded. “I see one.”

“Good. Get ready to run.”

Surprisingly, Thorin didn’t give any further argument. 

Just as he turned his attention back to Gollum, the creature’s huge eyes filled with something close to understanding and he met Bilbo’s gaze. 

“Oh, but how does it know, precious? How does it know?” His voice had gone unnervingly soft.

Bilbo’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword and his body tensed. Gollum would realise the Ring was missing soon enough. He prayed that Thorin could lead them out because he certainly wouldn’t be able to remember the path they would need to take to escape. 

“It doesn’t matter. It won’t know anymore once it’s dead.” Sure enough, Gollum reached for the pouch of his grungy little loincloth. His face almost seemed to go paler —if such a thing was even possible— then he was rooting around in the pocket and started pulling out pebbles and strings and other things, looking more and more desperate. “Where is it?!” he wailed, and spun in a circle, searching the ground at his feet. He stopped and whirled to look at Bilbo again. “It _knows!_ The nasty thief! It _stoles_ it!”

For a moment, Bilbo couldn’t move. Then a hand on his back shoved him in the direction of the tunnel.

“Time to go!” Thorin yelled.

Bilbo stumbled, then got his balance and began to run with the heavy footfalls of boots pounding on stone right on his heal. 

An ugly shriek came from behind, echoing off the walls of the cavern around them. Unintelligible curses followed.

Bilbo just kept on running. He could hardly see anything in the dark, yet by some miracle he managed not to trip over anything. He could just make out the gaping entrance to the tunnel when something crashed into him from above and he went down.

For a moment, there were hands squeezing his neck and he was surrounded by Gollum’s putrid scent. Then he was gone.

Coughing and sputtering, Bilbo sat up in time to see Thorin throw Gollum down and raise his sword. 

“ _No!_ ” 

The dwarf froze for half a second and looked at him. It gave time for Gollum to lunge, but not fast enough. Thorin turned back, and for a brief moment Bilbo feared he would cut Gollum down, but instead he struck the creature over the head with the butt of his sword. 

Gollum fell to the ground, dazed, and Bilbo stared at him until a strong hand gripped his arm and pulled him to his feet. Thorin let go of him just long enough to take his hand. Then they ran. 

 

They burst out of the mountain into the cool night air at a full sprint. 

There was no sign that they were being followed, but neither of them had wanted to take the chance of slowing down. They didn’t stop until they were several yards away from the tunnel mouth.

Panting heavily, Bilbo put his hands on his knees and fought to regain his breath.

A few minutes passed before he stood straight again, and when he did it was to find Thorin staring at him. 

“What is it?” 

“Bilbo, there is something I must tell you—” Thorin stopped and sucked in a sharp breath, looking at something over Bilbo’s shoulder. 

Confused, Bilbo turned, then felt a pit of dread suddenly drop in his belly.

The slopes below them were ablaze, the flaming trees glowing red against the dark sky. 

How they hadn’t noticed it sooner, he had no idea. The air smelled of smoke and if he listened closely, he could hear the faint roar of the raging fires. 

In moments, Thorin ran past him and went hurtling down the hill. There was nothing Bilbo could do but follow him.

Luckily, they didn’t cross paths with any stray wargs or orcs on their way down. None that were alive, at least. The trail of bodies lead them directly towards the cliff, and with each step they took, Bilbo’s heart sunk lower. 

Before long, they could hear shouting. 

Thorin stopped so suddenly that Bilbo ran into him. He had no time to say anything before the dwarf dragged him behind a large boulder.

They both peeked over the top of it and Bilbo let out a shuddering breath.

Twelve dwarves were perched precariously in the tree at the very edge of the cliff, along with Gandalf who was providing them with flaming pinecones. Bilbo couldn’t see well enough to tell if any of them were injured, but he was relieved to know that they were all there. It was only a small comfort, though. 

Two wargs were at the base of the tree, slamming their full weights against the trunk over and over again so that it shook dangerously. Over a dozen orcs cheered them on and threw taunts at their cornered prey in their own harsh language. 

In the middle of them all, sitting astride a white warg, was Azog.

Bilbo couldn’t help but close his eyes at the sight. The Pale Orc was yet another figure that had plagued his nightmares for many years. Moreso, even, than Gollum. It was he, afterall, who had ultimately been the end of his adventure. He who had caused the hollowness in Bilbo’s heart that had never truly gone away, even in his old age when his memory began to fail him. No, that was a hurt that had never healed. 

Shaking away the unpleasant thoughts, Bilbo glanced over at Thorin. 

The dwarf’s face was full of rage and grief...and determination. Bilbo noted how tight his grip on Orcrist was, his knuckles white. How he looked ready to spring into action at any moment.

Bilbo reached out and caught hold of Thorin’s coat just as he made a move to climb on top of the boulder. 

“ _Don’t you dare,_ ” he hissed.

Thorin’s gaze didn't waver, hatred making his blue eyes burn as bright as the fire that surrounded them. “I could kill him now, before he ever has the chance to—”

“What do you keep in that thick skull of yours? Rocks?” When he still didn’t look away, Bilbo sighed and softened his tone slightly. “If you go charging in there right now and get yourself killed, none of us will ever to make it to Erebor. Don’t throw this quest away for the sake of blind revenge.”

Thorin’s shoulders slumped. “You are right.”

“Of course I am,” Bilbo said and resisted the urge to let out a relieved sigh.

“But what do you suggest we do?”

“We need a plan.”

“Do you have any ideas?” Thorin asked.

“One,” Bilbo answered, shooting a glance at him. “But you’re not going to like it.” 

 

He was right; Thorin hated it. And if he was being entirely honest, he hated it too, but they didn’t know what else to do. So after several minutes spent arguing in quiet whispers, they finally came to an agreement.

“You remember exactly what you’re supposed to do?”

“Yes,” Thorin said, sounding upset.

Nodding curtly, Bilbo got to his feet and made to head off, but Thorin grabbed his hand and stopped him midstep.

He had a strange look in his eyes and when he spoke his tone was even stranger. “No matter what happens, do not place yourself between me and Azog again. I cannot do this without you.”

Then he was gone and Bilbo was left gaping like a fish out of water.

Again? What did he mean _again?_ This was the first time they had come across Azog on their journey. Further still, Bilbo had never thrown himself in front of Thorin like the dwarf had implied. Not in this lifetime, anyway. And it wasn’t as though the dwarf knew about any of that— 

No. Surely not. 

Head spinning, Bilbo took a deep breath and struggled to reel in his thoughts. He didn’t have time for wild speculation; he needed to save his friends. 

It was with great difficulty that he pushed everything to the back of his mind and snuck a glance around the side of the boulder.

All of the orcs had their full attention on the dwarves above them, who at this point had all stopped throwing their flaming pine cones and were now clutching at the branches around them. The wargs were still attacking the trunk, and with every hit the tree shook and swayed. 

Taking advantage of everyone’s distraction, Bilbo kept his head down and scampered from tree to tree to rock, making his way closer to the cliff’s edge. Before long, he reached the tree closest to the one that held the Company and —keeping as quiet as he could manage— he climbed up into its branches. 

By the time he reached a height where he was reasonably sure nobody could reach him, his hands and legs were scuffed and bleeding. He ignored the stinging scrapes and surveyed the ground below him. It seemed that he had managed to avoid detection, which was a small blessing. If he was spotted, this would probably never work. Granted, it probably wouldn’t work anyways.

Putting his hands up to his mouth, he hooted twice like a barn owl and once like a brown owl. 

His signal was answered two seconds later by an identical call, then a deep voice rang out across the clearing. “Azog!” 

The single word alone was enough to cause an outcry. The dwarves all let out a deafening cheer and the orcs screeched and howled, spinning to locate where the voice had come from and brandishing their crude weapons. 

From where Bilbo sat, he got a perfect view of Azog’s grotesque smile just before the orc turned his warg and put his back to the rest of the Company. 

Bilbo couldn’t help but lean forward to catch a glimpse of what was happening, and what he saw took his breath away.

Halfway up a tall pine, Thorin stood steady on a thick branch, gazing down at Azog with cold fury. Orcrist glowed blue in his hand. The flickering light of the fires made him seem almost otherworldly. He looked...well, Bilbo didn’t know how to describe it. Just that in that moment, there could be no question as to who was the rightful King of dwarves.

The Defiler shouted something in black speech that was very obviously a taunt and pointed his metal claw at Thorin.

The dwarf’s face twisted into a snarl and he yelled something back, but Bilbo didn’t know what was said. All he could hear was the deep groan of the tree as it slowly leaned back over the cliff’s edge. 

Whipping around, Bilbo noted with no small amount of alarm that the tree was barely clinging to the earth with its roots. A few more hits and it would tip. Utterly rabid, the wargs aimed to do just that.

Bilbo tore open his rucksack and grabbed a hefty stone off the top. Then, winding up, he threw it with as much strength as he had and sent it soaring through the air to hit one of the wargs on its rump. When it turned to face its attacker, it promptly caught another to the eye. It yelped and stumbled, shaking its head madly. When it stopped, its uninjured eye landed straight on Bilbo. With a roar, the warg charged at his tree and slammed into it like a battering ram. 

It shook enough that he had to grab onto the branch to keep his balance, and he immediately pulled his feet up, wary of the beast’s foaming jaws and snapping fangs. Frozen for a moment, Bilbo couldn’t help but stare down at it as it tried again and again to jump high enough to reach him. 

There was a creak, a groan, and a crack, then somebody —Ori, it sounded like— let out a piercing scream.

Snapped out of his daze, Bilbo watched with horror as the tree finally toppled. 

It went down with a crash and left the entire Company dangling in the open air. 

The second warg had been hit by the trees roots as they were ripped from the ground and was thrown several feet away. It lay stunned for a moment, then clambered back to its feet. Setting its sights on the dwarves that were now well within its reach, it started to prowl closer.

With the realisation that the added weight of the warg was likely to send the entire tree tumbling off the cliff, Bilbo scrambled to grab another rock, but his hand only found bark. 

His pack was gone. 

Looking down, he found that the warg had paused in its attempt to reach him in favor of ripping his supplies to hundreds of little pieces.

Desperately, Bilbo looked between the two wargs several times.

“Dear Yavanna, this is a terrible idea,” he muttered.

Then, with nothing else to do, he drew his sword, took a deep breath, and pushed off the branch. 

The warg below didn’t even have time to look up before his blade was thrust straight through the top of its head.

The impact knocked the breath out of Bilbo. After a few moments, he wheezed and pushed himself off the ground. Stumbling, he fell against the dead warg and nearly gagged at the putrid stench of it. He stood again and grabbed a hold of Sting, giving three big tugs before he managed to pull it from the warg’s skull. 

He swung around to find that the other warg hadn’t even noticed him and was just beginning to climb onto the tree, its eyes locked on Dwalin. 

Scooping a rock off the ground, Bilbo said a silent prayer and let it fly. 

It found its mark.

The warg whirled around with a furious snarl and its attention settled on him. 

Bilbo heard Fili scream a warning, then the warg charged. He watched it get closer, rooted to the spot and unable to move. Just as he saw the whites of its eyes, he dropped to the ground. 

The warg leapt. 

He threw his arms over his head, waiting for the teeth that would surely turn him to ribbons.

But nothing happened.

Instead, there was a skidding noise, then a yelp.

Bilbo looked up just as the warg went off the cliff.

He sat there in shock for several moments, then got the presence of mind to turn his attention back to the clearing. By some miracle, his wild endeavor to take on two wargs single-handedly had gone unnoticed.

Thorin was performing his role well. He was still shouting insults at the orcs and wargs swarming his tree, and had taken to chucking rocks down into the fray below and swinging his sword at any who managed to climb within his reach.

Azog still sat upon his warg, silently watching the dwarf’s efforts.

For a few short moments, Bilbo almost thought that Thorin would be able to keep their enemies distracted until the eagles arrived. Then he spotted a lone orc near the outskirts of the pack. 

In its hands, it held Kili’s bow. It was in the process of taking aim. 

Straight at Thorin.

Bilbo didn’t wait to consider his options. He was on his feet and sprinting at the orc before he even realised what he was doing. Somebody yelled at him to stop, but he didn’t so much as falter. 

Halfway to his target, a familiar object caught his eye and he slowed long enough to heave it off the ground. It was much lighter than he would have expected, and felt as though it molded perfectly to his arm.

Where the oak shield had come from and how it had gotten where it was, Bilbo didn’t care. 

He slammed into the orc just before it released its arrow.

 

What happened after that, he wasn’t entirely sure. All he knew was that he ended up on the ground, his sight going in and out of focus and his head feeling like it had been cracked open like the first summer melon. The noise and chaos surrounding him seemed muffled and far away, the ringing in his ears far louder than anything else. As his eyes dimmed, he could have sworn he saw a woman in green standing encompassed by flames, watching him with calm eyes.

Then everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Akhamân - thanks  
> Nê aglub uduhu - don’t mention it 
> 
> Khuzdul courtesy of TheDwarrowScholar

**Author's Note:**

> Mizùl, Inùdoyê. Mahzirikhi zu gang ghukhil - Good luck, my son. I wish you a safe journey.
> 
> It's been a long time since I wrote this first chapter, so I don't remember exactly where found the khuzdul in it, but I am reasonably certain that it came from The Dwarrow Scholar. 
> 
> I'd like to note that I did not come up with the name for Fili's and Kili's father. Vili is a name that I have seen used in numerous other fics, and I've found that I like it, so any credit for that goes to whoever decided to use that name first.


End file.
